The Soldier's Return
by Pyro'sBest
Summary: The missing month at the end of the book. How will Conor explain what happened to his family? How will his family react? And how will Conor win over his princess, now queen of all Saltee? Will justice return to the land?
1. Chapter 1: Flying French Spies

**A/N: I absolutely loved the book Airman – even when I was only halfway through reading it, it was already one of the best books I'd ever read, if not the best. Though I adored the book I wanted to know what happened at the end in the month's period before the finish, so, I made up what I wanted to happen. Quotes are in italics but there are so many smaller quotes that it would be hard to show them all.**

**Disclaimer: 1. I am not male, 2. I'm not Irish, 3. I do not live with a wife and two sons in Ireland, 4. I could never even hope to be that good at writing. Does that convince you that I am, in fact, not the genius that is Eoin Colfer and I do not, in fact, own the amazing story of Airman? – If yes: well done you noticed. **

**Song Suggestion: **Easier To Run by Linkin Park. You don't have to listen to it, it's only a suggestion but I usually say a song that I think fits in with the events in the chapter and I think this one fits with this chapter and the parts before especially well.**  
Chapter 1: **Flying French Angel**  
Third Person POV**

_"To Conor, my son," said Declan, "Heaven is lucky to have him." and raised the _poisoned _glass to his mouth._

_But before he could do more than wet his lips something dark detached itself from the night outside and pounced on Hugo Bonvilain. Something dark, with wings._

Conor hurtled himself through the huge open windows of the balcony, tugging harshly on two ropes to close the wings quickly – a detail he had recently added and feared he would need to use. The wings folded instantly, but the momentum carried Conor all the way into the room where his feet had barely touched the ground before he pounced on Bonvilain.

The force knocked them both backwards onto the low table, skidding across its surface and sending crockery flying. They rolled off the other end of the table, both cocooned in the shiny gold table cloth. Conor landed punch after punch into Bonvilain's face, Hugo fought back; throwing fists deep into Conor's gut though they were getting weaker as the poison took hold. Conor took the punches but dealt twice as many back.

Over the initial shock of the intrusion, Declan Broekhart pulled out the ceremonial sword that swung on his hip. Ceremonial, but razor sharp nonetheless. _The Airman! He's come to kill the queen! _Thought Declan.

He crouched forwards, grabbing a fist of the table cloth and pulling sharply, the fighting pair rolled out still throwing punches.

Conor landed on top of his opponent, the stream of punches never stopping, though Bonvilain was near unconscious, both his face and Conor's fist a bloody mess.

Declan brought down his sword, ready to thrust it into the Airman's shoulder. Conor saw this coming and rolled away, landing like a cat then springing lithely to his feet. Declan stepped over the now vomiting and convulsing form of Hugo Bonvilain as the poison took place, brandishing his sword in attack.

Conor's sabre barely cleared its scabbard to parry his father's thrust. There were many chances for Conor to attack but he ignored all of them – how could he hurt his own father?

He debated for a second: would it be better to pose as a French spy, or a man his father had sworn to kill if he ever saw him again…

Allowed no extra thought on the matter, Conor chose the French spy.

"Non, monsieur, you must stop."

"I will not stop till you are dead!" growled Declan.

Conor hid his hurt well; two years on Little Saltee had taught him that. Suddenly a thought dawned on Conor and he almost lost grip on his sword.

"Ave you made ze toast?!" He asked frantically. Declan looked confused but didn't answer thinking it was a distraction, instead attacking with more fury over his opponent's slight falter.

"Pleeze tell me, ave you drunk ze wine?" Once again there was no reply.

Declan made a sudden advance, Conor blocked it, being a better swordsman than his father in which the latter was better marksman. The force of the parry knocked his father backwards where he tripped over the cushions lying scattered on the floor.

Before the boy could even catch his breath he was under attack again. Catherine Broekhart, seeing only an attacker in front of her, picked the nearest thing to hand – a flower vase which she flung at him.

Conor ducked but not in time, the vase smashed, showering him in pottery, flowers and a splash of cold water straight in the face; he came up wearing daffodils. The water cleaned away most of the soot and oil that had accumulated on Conor's face whilst flying but the goggles, cap and stubble along his jaw (he'd forgotten to shave) rendered him unrecognisable still.

Using Conor's momentary blindness to her advantage Isabella pulled a samurai sword from its presentation case, adopting a fencing stance before him.

"En garde! Airman" She screamed before launching at him with her sword, he fought her attempts easily; she had improved much since their lessons but lacked his skill.

Declan was back on his feet by now, joining in the fight so Conor had not one opponent but two. Conor brandished his other sabre, now with one in each hand to battle both of them at once. At seeing another weapon, his opponents fought harder than ever, convinced now he was here to kill the Queen.

After several minutes, none were relenting. Knowing that the he would tire faster with both of them together, Conor made a split decision.

He tucked away one of his sabres back into the scabbard, a duck, a parry and he was behind Isabella. His arm snaked around her waist, pulling her back tight against his chest he sheathed his other sword then pulled out the small dagger he always kept strapped to his hip.

Conor brought the dagger up to Isabella's throat, keeping the blade millimetres away from the soft skin there. Instinctively she pulled her chin up, shying away from the proximity of the knife.

"Don't worry, I will not harm you." He whispered into her ear, dropping the accent for a moment. Her skin and hair brushed against his cheek delicately, giving Conor a tingling feeling in the pit of his stomach. He brushed it off, now was not the time.

The sincerity of the stranger's words made Isabella do a double take. That voice was familiar – she knew it, but couldn't quite place it.

"Now, tell me. Ave you drunk ze wine?!" Conor demanded now to his father.

"Step away from her!"

"Tell me!" He shouted bringing the knife even closer to Isabella's throat.

"No! No toast was made." Conor's shoulders slumped with relief. They hadn't drunk the poison. They were going to live.

Conor released Isabella, stowing the dagger back under his jacket and letting her return where she was greeted by a hug from his mother. He felt a twinge of jealousy – no one had hugged him like that for over three years, come to think of it, he hadn't hugged anyone in over three years. Cuddling was not a common sight on Little Saltee.

Declan was surprised by the easy release of the Queen, something he had not been expecting. He raised his sword again but with less certainty, was this really the merciless killer he'd thought it was?

Bonvilain had gone by unnoticed until now as he laughed cruelly. He'd crawled himself over to the leaver on the wall, with that laugh he pulled it down, releasing the four men crammed in to the secret cavity in the wall behind the tapestry.

"Look out!" Conor shouted suddenly, taking the dagger from his belt and using it as a throwing knife, burying it deep in the upper arm of one of the men. They all stumbled for a second, stiff and startled by the bright light compared with the cramped space.

That second was all it took for Conor to stride over there, pulling out a sabre with each hand and attacking as fearlessly as no doubt the mercenaries would.

"Watch Bonvilyan!" He called over his shoulder to Isabella, motioning to the sword lying near her feet.

Recognising Bonvilain's men as the more prominent threat and that Isabella could handle the ex-marshal, Declan joined his (though he still didn't know it) son's side. One man was down already, unconscious with a sword hilt to the forehead.

The Broekharts fought valiantly against the brutes converging on them three to two but paid the price, gaining many small cuts and injuries. One of the men – a huge Scottish bear of a man broke through their defences, just long enough to knock Declan back, his body flew back a good five feet, his head hitting the wall and his body slumping to the floor. He groaned in pain, his wife hurrying over to help her poor husband.

The young Broekhart was now left on his own, outnumbered but holding his own. Conor had resorted to abandoning his sabres in exchange for karate. He beat them back, all unsure of the strange man in front of them jabbing with his hands and kicking high with his legs and feet. None quite knew how to respond.

All the intruders were now backed into the cramped space from which they had come.

"Izabella, pull down ze leaver!" Conor shouted to Isabella, the accent still in place. He drew the revolver from his belt, firing two sharp shots at the men's shins, shattering the bones in two of them just before the sliding door was rolled shut by the system of pulleys connected to the leaver Isabella had just pulled.

The men's moans could be heard echoing through the grate on the fire but other than that everything was silent. All of them knew the wall guards would have heard those shots and would soon be on their way.

Conor swivelled slowly on his heel, coming face to face with his enemy. Three years of burning, built up hatred bubbled up inside him and he found himself walking towards the man that had ruined his life. Without even noticing it, Conor's hand felt the hilt of his sabre in his hand, the point of which had earlier been buried in the wooden flooring.

He took slow and steady steps towards Bonvilain who was now actually shaking with fear, a sight Conor had never thought he would see; the Broekhart part of him could almost feel merciful for that monstrosity, but cruel Mr Finn relished in the sight of such a huge man almost cowering away from him.

Declan Broekhart had recovered from the fall by now only for him to see the flying French spy walking slowly and purposefully towards the unsuspecting Queen. He stumbled to his feet, calling on all his last reserves of strength; raising his sword and bringing it down onto the airman only to have it almost casually brushed away.

Only the low table stood between Conor and Hugo now, though his feet didn't falter, instead carrying him over the polished wood and down on the other side. Everyone in the room was affected by Conor's presence; it demanded respect and oozed authority.

Bonvilain trembled.

With two fast strides Conor was upon the man, brushing Isabella to the side and grabbing Bonvilain's throat with his right hand, holding the sabre aloft in his left.

"Bonvilain" He growled with a fury the size of a God's and dropping the accent to make sure Bonvilain knew exactly, if he didn't already, who he was talking to.

"You ruined my life!" He roared suddenly in the man's face, bringing his head forwards then pounding his skull back against the wall. "I lost everything because of you!"

"As was my intent." Hissed Bonvilain, his words distorted from blood and spittle.

"What is to stop me from killing you right now?" He hissed back. "You would not be the first person I have killed."

Bonvilain raised an eyebrow.

"Sheep aren't always for eating you know," replied Conor to the unasked question. Bonvilain's eyes widened considerably. "Oh, and as for that three pounds you paid, I should probably thank you – it ended up in my pocket anyways." He grinned sadistically.

"So kill me then, boy." Spat the ex-marshal.

"Say my name; I want you to know who's killing you."

"B-b…br-" Stuttered Bonvilain.

"Say. My. Name." Conor hissed, punctuating each word with another smash of Bonvilain's skull against the wall and grabbing Bonvilain's throat so tightly his eyes nearly popped.

Comprehension dawned on the doomed man's face. "Finn," he gasped painfully, "Con-or…Finn."

"Better." Growled Conor before clunking him on the head with the handle of the sabre rendering him unconscious yet again. It would be fair to say this had not been one of the ex-marshal's better days.

Conor turned around to see his father's face and hurried an explanation on seeing his expression. "Just hear me out ok! I know you said you'd kill me if you ever saw me again but-"

"YOU!" Shrieked Declan, with a fury to rival the Devils, he charged at the boy, given strength by his hatred. He pushed Conor up against the wall, sword tip at his throat.

"Just hear you out?! Just hear you out?! The king is dead because of you. My son is gone because of what you did!" He growled the last part.

Isabella and Catherine moved up behind Declan now understanding who this man was. They glared daggers at him.

Tears sprung to Conor's eyes but he held them back. They'd found out who he was, they were more willing to listen to a traitor than their own son. The bitter truth washed over him. He'd told himself he wouldn't hope and he hadn't, but now he saw he was wrong, he had been hoping and that crushed him more than anything. Hope really was the worst form of torture.

Well, his prediction was right at least: he was not wanted here.

And now he was going to die – by his father's hands nonetheless, branded a traitor and murderer, his day just couldn't get much better.

Still now he tried.

"No, let me explain!"

His father ignored him. "Take off the mask; I like to see the face of a man before I kill him."

All of the events of the last three years finally caught up to Conor, from the day Bonvilain killed the king, right up until now, his limbs suddenly felt too long and heavy – he was tired, so tried. Conor was a broken man, betrayed, branded as a traitor, abandoned. But even now as he faced his imminent death; he pulled himself back together, squaring his shoulders and raising his chin defiantly, they would not beat him, even if they killed him they would not beat him; others would remember Conor Finn – Linus, Malarkey, even Uncle.

The father and son's eyes met.

"I said take off that mask!" Shouted Declan. Conor made no move to.

Declan raised his sword ready to strike and reached out with his other hand, tearing the goggles off Conor's face. The swinging sword stopped less than a foot away from Conor's throat. Everything froze.

Conor was completely still; his eyes were closed as his father ripped away the goggles from his face. Everything went quiet.

Conor couldn't handle this; the quiet just brought home the truth. Conor's shoulders slumped, defeated. He was just a fourteen year old boy, eavesdropping on a man inside a tower.

The cap was left on and that confused Conor – oh right, the chin strap would have stopped it. He reached up slowly and unbuckled the leather, eyes still closed. He pulled of the flight cap and dropped it on the floor, ran a hand through his hair that was now long enough to brush across his forehead. His eyes never opened.

Everything was still frozen.

_What are they waiting for?_ Thought Conor, unable to see why they wouldn't just kill him now. Or maybe they had already, maybe he was already dead.

Time to find out. He opened his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2: Home

**A/N: Sorry I haven't updated in a while guys, but I've been really busy lately. **

**Disclaimer: though I thoroughly wish I could own the fantastic novel that is Airman (especially Conor who in my imagination is extremely fit) sadly, I do not. **

**Song suggestion: **Fix You by Coldplay**  
Chapter 2: **Home**  
Third Person POV**

He opened his eyes.

Declan Broekhart's face was a picture. Emotions flitted across its surface like skimming stones across a lake. His anger seemed to just fall away, replaced by confusion, desperation, a small amount of joy and then finally hopelessness.

"No, no, this can't be real." Declan shook his head furiously. "No!"

Taking in his father's pause Conor tired one last attempt. "Please! Just listen; it wasn't me who killed them-"

Declan didn't hear him, he was too captivated in his own mind. "No, it can't be you, it can't be, my son is dead."

Conor stopped speaking suddenly and his father finally met his gaze. "What do you mean? I'm not dead, you saw me!"

"What…I…Bonvilain said...died…"

Conor realised just how deeply Bonvilain's lies had run.

"But you…" Declan's face dropped completely. "That was you in that cell," he moaned, dropping to his knees and hanging his head. Conor's arms went limp and the sabre he'd been holding tumbled to the floor with a clatter. Salty tears ran down his cheeks. Declan looked up at his son, also crying and more than half hoping for a denial. Conor nodded grimly and some of the tears fell off his chin and onto the floor.

Declan moaned on the floor, putting his head into his hands. "I said I'd kill you," he sobbed, "I said I'd kill my own son."

Conor couldn't move; his body shook with sobs and tears streamed down his face as he watched his father.

Isabella was the first to move. She to had tears in her eyes as she ran forwards and hugged him fiercely. This shook him from his daze and Conor wrapped his arms around her, hugging her just as tightly. He kissed her neck, still unable to believe all of this was actually happening.

Catherine Broekhart broke from her trance also and ran forwards to embrace her son. Conor held onto both women like a drowning man to a life raft. Tears flowed down his cheeks freely, all the pent up emotions of the last three years finally being released.

Isabella removed herself from Conor's arms but kept one of his hands. Catherine released the death grip she had on her son and held the boy at arm's length away from her. "My son, just look at you, so tall, so grown up." She stood on tiptoes as Conor bent his head down so she could kiss his forehead.

Declan Broekhart was still sobbing on his knees at this point. Conor extracted himself from the two ladies and bent to his knees in front of his father. Declan looked up and their eyes met. A silent exchange passed between them for a few moments before the father and son embraced each other in a sudden and fierce hug.

Past coherent thoughts, let alone actual sentences, it was all Declan could do to clutch Conor to him saying 'sorry' repeatedly, rocking themselves back and forth, back and forth.

Conor smiled thorough his tears. He was home.

--

Outside, the guards hammered at the immovable wooden door with their fists and the butts of their rifles.

"Sir! Open up!" They called, unable to break through the great wooden blockage.

Inside the room Catherine Broekhart tore her eyes away from her husband and son, pulling herself together quickly. "Coming!" She yelled back, "Just one second, there's something in the way."

The guards stopped their hammering. "Is everything okay in there – we heard gun shots?" one shouted.

"Hang on!" She decided to respond instead of answering the question.

Catherine stepped away to dry her tears. She took out her handkerchief to wipe her eyes and used the back of a shiny silver spoon on the floor next to her to check her appearance.

Finally Catherine stepped around her still kneeling son and husband to unbolt the door. Being the very clever woman that she was, she pulled the door open, too quickly for them to enter but quickly enough for her to step out, and shut the door behind her so they couldn't see anything.

"Wright, Flaherty, O'Doul, McCarty," She called four of the most trusted guards who also stood at the front. "Follow me."

She led them into the room, careful to keep the door at such an angle so the rest wouldn't be able to look into the room. Once all four were in, Catherine bolted the door shut again.

She opened her mouth to explain but stopped upon seeing their faces. All four men wore the exact same expression, jaws slack, mouths open and eyes wide and staring at their Captain who was still sobbing on the floor into his son's jacket. "Oh." Said one.

Conor looked up from on his knees, his eyes dry now but with that prickly feeling you get after crying for a long time. Sensing the other's presence in the room, Declan attempted to pull himself together, drawing in deep calming breaths and breathing out shakily.

Catherine quickly seized control. "Men," She addressed them and they turned away from staring at the father and son. "I have brought you four in here only as I believe we can trust you. Even we don't know the full story yet but you will soon be informed. You are to help us in here…but keep these sights strictly to yourselves – is that understood?" She spoke in such a commanding and authoritative tone they all gaped at her slightly. Finally McCarty – the second in command of the whole guard – nodded with a quick 'Yes ma'am'.

Declan Broekhart had now pulled himself together sufficiently; he stood up on slightly shaky legs, swaying for a moment before regaining his balance and standing tall. He squared his shoulders and raised his chin, a completely different – healed – man than he had been for so long.

Declan strolled over, placing a hand at the small of his wife's back and addressing the men before him who visibly stood straighter.

"Bonvilain is a traitor." He told them, not waiting for their questions but speaking straight over them. "You are to arrest him and take him to the holding cells below the docks. There are some of his accomplices hiding in a cavity behind the wall," he pointed to the grate where the moans of the men were still echoing through, "you are to get them out, (there is a lever against the wall) arrest them and put them in the cells along with Bonvilain. Men, know that tonight, those bastards tried to kill the queen." All four nodded solemnly.

Declan looked around the room. "After you've done those I want you, McCarty, to escort the queen to her chambers and then stay with her until you see fit that she is safe."

"No." Isabella stepped forwards, everyone turned to watch her. "Please Declan; I won't be able to feel comfortable at all after what's happened now, especially not in the same building."

"You can come and stay with us dear." Said Catherine brightly, Isabella beamed.

Declan continued now. "Wright, I want you to go out and send some men to fetch the head maid after we've finished out business in here. Tell her to bring her two most trusted workers. You are not to tell anyone what you have witnessed here today. Like my wife said, we don't even know the full story ourselves but once we do you will all no doubt be briefed." He looked at his men. O'Donlan's gaze dropped away from the Captain's and over to a certain someone else. "Is there something you want to ask?" Said Declan with a smile, seeing the man's expression.

"Is that your son Sir?" He asked timidly. "'Cause, no offence Sir but last time I heard, your son was dead – but if there's something wrong with me eyes I-" the man named Wright elbowed O'Donlan in the ribs and went to hurry an apology for the other man's sake.

"Yes O'Donlan," Declan cut them both off, looking over his shoulder and smiling at his still kneeling son who grinned back, "my son has returned to us." When he turned back he found that all the men were watching him with varying expressions of happiness and amusement. "Now get to work!" He snapped suddenly and all men hurried off looking sheepish.

--

Isabella, Conor, Declan, Catherine and baby Sean were all sitting in the living room of the Broekhart family home. Conor sat on one of the sofas, sleeping little brother in his arms and Isabella leaning against his shoulder. Declan and Catherine sat together on the other sofa, watching and smiling at their two sons and Isabella – who they thought of as a daughter.

Conor beamed down at his little brother in his arms, marvelling at the face that looks so alike his own but at the same time completely different.

Unable to resist, Declan leaned forwards in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees and watching his son eagerly. "So what happened? Where have you been? What've you been doing for the past three years?"

These were the questions Conor had been dreading all evening and still he hadn't made his decision. _I can't tell them. I can't, I just…can't. _

"It's really not that interesting." Conor said.

"Nonsense!" Declared his father; Conor sighed.

"What happened to you?"

"A little after you…after our encounter," said Conor carefully, both son and father flinching at the painful memories, "I managed to escape. I've been on the run ever since."

"What do you mean 'after your encounter'?" Asked Catherine. Conor looked at his father questioningly and Isabella sat forwards intrigued. Declan swallowed audibly.

"You didn't tell them?" Conor asked.

Declan dropped his head into his hands and heaved a sigh. "A few days after we were told the news of Conor's…d-death," he stumbled over the word "Bonvilain took me to a cell; he told me it was the murderer inside." His voice was choked and tears were in his eyes but he held them back, swallowing thickly. "It was Conor in there." He sounded like he was gagging but forced himself to carry on. "I didn't know, I swear, I didn't…" He trailed off, a tear slipping down over his cheek as he looked at his wife with the expression of a lost little boy.

"I didn't recognise him, I swear I didn't, they – they made him look different, they gave him a beard, and a tattoo! And, and, a swollen, bruised face." Declan trembled, trying to reason desperately. Catherine placed a soothing hand on her husband's shoulder, making small shushing noises. "And the box, they had him in a lunatic box, and chained to the wall." He moaned tortured, imagining what his son must have gone through. "I didn't recognise you, I swear I…" He turned pleadingly to his son. Conor sat on the sofa, if you could even call it sitting. His shoulders were rigid and tensed, his jaw locked and his expression steely as all the memories returned to him – with the others. Everyone was affected by his presence, it was a furious, deadly calm, he was someone to be feared.

"And then what I said," Declan cringed, "_That wretch is nothing to me…I have no son._" Declan continued, tears flowing freely down his face but unable to stop himself as he rode on the painful wave of memories flooding back to him. "_My son is gone, and __you_ _remain._" He shook his head painfully. "I said I'd kill you, I said I'd kill my own son…and then I was leaving…you took the cage and you…you…bashing your head…" Declan trailed off wordlessly but Conor carried on for him.

"It was the only way to make the words leave." He said quietly in a tight voice. Conor looked away, glaring out the darkened windows as his hate for Bonvilain impossibly grew.

"Oh Conor!" Cried Isabella, throwing her arms around Conor's neck and nearly waking baby Sean. Conor shifted his brother's weight onto one arm, bringing the other around Isabella's back half-heartedly and not really feeling like being touched or comforted right now.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Catherine asked her husband.

Declan shook his head and dropped it into his hands. "I don't know." He whispered.

Conor's jaw clamped tighter, he hated keeping things from them but he was right not to tell them the truth. If they reacted like this just to the encounter, how would they react to him being a salt?

Isabella was the first to speak once Declan and Catherine had calmed themselves down. Conor was still more tense than usual but not like he had been before. She pulled out of his arm easily but took one of his hands, folding it in both of her own while his branded left hand stayed fisted under his brother.

"You say you escaped," she said, "how?"

Conor sighed before answering. "They came for me a few days after…later," he made up turning to face them finally. "They were moving me somewhere and took me out of my cell; I had a guard on either side of me so I took my chances and tried to fight them off. Somehow I managed to beat them. After that it was just a simple matter of getting the keys and getting out." Okay, given it was unlikely – very unlikely – but not impossible…mostly. Somehow all three of them bought it, staring at him with wide, awing eyes which just made him feel even worse for lying to them.

"Where have you been since you escaped?" Asked Isabella eagerly.

"I stayed in London for a while, going by the name of Conor Finn, I made some friends there but moved away again after a few months." Well, it wasn't a complete lie, he reasoned, he had been to the London docks – if only for a day – and he had made friends, even if Zeb Malarkey was slightly unorthodox.

"Where did you go after that?" She asked.

"Around and about, I travelled mostly, doing odd jobs here and there to get by. I stayed like that for most of a year." Okay – that was made up. "But lately I've been living somewhere much closer to home." All three looked at him questioningly, silently encouraging him to carry on. "I remembered Victor telling me about the tower at Forlorn point in Kilmore Quay, he told me that I should go there if ever I was in need. I didn't realise when he was telling me but he owned the tower, even had a laboratory set up and everything. A wind tunnel on the roof too. I've been living there with Linus since."

"Who's Linus?" Isabella asked.

"A friend." He answered. "I need to talk to talk to him actually, I'll send for him in the morning." He mumbled mostly to himself. "We met in Kilmore Quay, we became friends and so I told him about my past. It turns out he was actually a spy working for Nicholas, posing as a blind violinist, he knew Victor too and had been told of me."

"Why didn't you visit, come see us, tell us you were still alive, anything?" Asked his mother.

Conor flinched at the hurt tone in her voice. "I still thought you hated me." He said quietly and Catherine's face softened. He decided to keep the night when he'd gone to see them to himself – no need to hurt them further.

"The plane!" Spurted Isabella, sitting up suddenly. "Conor! You flew! You were flying, actually flying! And the glider too! Conor you did it!" Conor grinned, his mood instantly lifted.

"The laboratory in the tower," he explained, "Victor had it filled with all the things I needed and the wind tunnel too. I made the Isabella first though." He grinned unable to stop himself.

Isabella tilted her head to the side lightly, the way she always did when she was confused. Conor nodded behind her to the folded up glider that looked like a rucksack over the back of the sofa. "The glider, I named it after you." She smiled up at his, her eyes flashing and squeezed his hand, careful of his raw knuckles.

Something in her gaze made his stomach erupt in butterflies.

"I'm sorry about the plane." Sighed Declan. "It's a shame it got ruined, nearly killed you too!" his voice rose slightly at the end.

Conor waved it away, "It was falling apart anyway, I would have had to crash land it, bullets or no bullets. It was worth it though, saved your lives." He squeezed Isabella's hand back without looking at her.

"Why did you pose as the French person before? When you came in, you could have just taken off your cap and goggles and saved yourself all that trouble." Said Catherine.

Conor's smile dropped instantly. "I thought you still hated me." He repeated his earlier explanation from before. "Before in the cell…" the fierce, tense Conor was returning, retreating in on himself. Isabella saw this and stroked the back of his hand affectionately, running her fingers up his forearm, under the leather sleeve of his jacket. Her hand paused at his wrist, feeling the rough scars under the pads of her fingers before continuing with the stroking of his hand. The falter was only very slight but Conor felt it and squeezed the hand that was till enveloped in his. Conor's eyes returned to his mother's as she spoke.

"To think of it," said Catherine, "My son, only seventeen and already a sir, a criminal, and escapee, a saviour and the first person to experience flight."

Conor chuckled lightly – _If only they knew. _He fingered the winged 'A' that hung on the leather thong around his neck **(A/N: I know in the book he gave it to Uncle but for this story let's pretend he didn't.) **and shook his head lightly."It's strange to think of myself as only seventeen, Conor Finn was nearly twenty one." All of them looked at him quizzically but he just shrugged.

Isabella leaned back against Conor's shoulder, her head falling into the crook of his neck. He planted a soft kiss on the top of her head as he took his hand away from hers but wrapped the arm around her shoulders instead. Isabella's eyes looked up to his and a silent exchange passed between them.

Declan and Catherine shared a knowing look.

--

It was late, both Declan and Catherine were asleep on the sofa and Isabella had retired to her room fort he night.

Only Conor was up, sitting wide awake on the sofa, his mind unable to stop racing.

_I lied, I lied to them, _he kept thinking, regretting what he did but also unable to cause them the pain that would have ensued if he had told them the truth. _I'll tell them one day, _he promised himself; _I'll tell them one day. _The burden lay heavily on Conor's mind and heart, _it can only get worse by not telling them; _the traitorous voice in the back of his mind kept saying. _But what could I say to them now that I have lied? Will they ever trust me again, knowing that I lied before? How will they react?_

Conor sighed, Sean shifted in his arms and Conor looked down on the tiny face. They were complete opposites looks wise but something about the boy was so alike to Conor it was uncanny.

Standing, Conor walked over to his sleeping parents, placing his also sleeping brother down in his mother's arms. None of them stirred.

Before retiring to his room himself, Conor watched them for a second. A family – his family.


	3. Chapter 3: Nightmares

**Disclaimer: I own nothing! **

**What has happened so far: **Conor had defeated Bonvilain in a very dramatic battle, his family has found out who he is and asked him lots of questions about where he has been over the last few years. Conor lied to them, thinking that they couldn't handle the truth.

**Warning: **This chapter is Wensleydale with a bit of Gorgonzola thrown in and one hell of a lot of Cheddar. In other words it is pure cheese: creepily, sickeningly, tastily cheesy. Enjoy!

**Song suggestion: **Crosses by Jose Gonzalez**  
Chapter 3: **Nightmares**  
Third Person POV**

Nothing in Conor's room had changed. Everything was exactly how he'd left it. Even the pens on the desk were still scattered across the surface.

Conor lay in his big double bed unable to get back to sleep. He'd just woken up, shaking and in a cold sweat; the nightmare lingered in his mind, anytime he closed his eyes it would return.

The model planes hanging from the ceiling loomed over him ominously, playing tricks with his eyes and casting shadows.

Conor sat up, rubbing his eyes tiredly; he hadn't had a good night's sleep in over three years and now the nightmares just wouldn't go away. He lit the candle on his bedside table and swung his legs over the side of the bed, kicking off the covers and grabbing the shirt he'd left on the floor to shrug on.

--

Isabella walked through the walls of the Broekhart home unable to sleep after having her own nightmare. Her feet unwittingly took her to Conor's room. Assuming he would be asleep and unable to help her curiosity, she opened the door and stepped inside.

Conor was indeed awake and she had just walked in the moment he was putting his shirt on. He had changed a lot since she last saw him, his shoulders had broadened, he'd grown and he was so much more muscular too. Conor had always had his mother's features but he'd inherited his father's stature and height. He'd lost weight too, or maybe it was the healthy bulk from before had turned into wiry muscle and then the bulk not replaced. Either way he looked thinner than before, stronger and even more toned but skinnier.

His attitude had changed as well; he was different, more reserved, commanding almost. He was fiercer than before too, rougher, _rugged_; something that both scared and intrigued Isabella greatly. Gone was the gangly, long-limed, caring youth and in his place was a flinty, composed and respected looking man.

Conor's scarred back was in full view to Isabella from her position by the door whilst the tattoo on his arm stayed out of her line of sight. Her eyes followed the lines of all the scars, forever marring his skin. The 'x' burnt on by the ropes of his parachute. The long vertical and diagonal lines from the multiple lashings and beatings he'd received whilst in prison although Isabella wasn't to know these things.

Isabella let out a small gasp in awe; though ruined, he was beautiful.

Conor heard this gasp and stood quickly, spinning to face her. They stood watching each other for a long moment, both of them only in night clothes. She smiled timidly at him and he smiled back tightly.

Isabella had changed much in Conor's eyes as well. He had always found her pretty but now she was downright beautiful. She was compelling and confident and would make such a good leader to the islands. "Isabella?" He asked, surprised to see her there but wondering how long she'd been standing there and how much she could have seen. That gasp – she'd seen his scars, she was going to work out that he was lying and he was going to have to tell the truth before he was ready.

Set on damage control, Conor crossed the room to meet her quickly but stopped a few feet away at her expression. Her gaze was disconcerting, it was a mixture of sadness and happiness and awe with confusion. "Isabella?" He asked again whilst closing the short distance between them, panic laced his voice.

Without speaking or breaking their gaze, she placed a hand in the middle of his chest (higher than she remembered); she let it hang there for a moment before slowly sliding it up to cup the side of his neck. He let out a gusty breath at her touch, his eyes closing of their own accord then furrowed his brows in confusion. Isabella used this hand to pull herself, pushing her body against his warm one and placing a kiss to the other side of his neck to her hand. She placed two more kisses on his jaw, another on his cheek and a final one just in front of his ear. She had to stand on tip toes to do so.

He followed her after she pulled away, leaning down to give her all of the kisses back and then some more too. Conor kissed her temple and then the bridge of her nose. Their foreheads rested together and their eyes opened, seeking conformation from the other. Finding his, Conor lowered his lips till they were a mere centimeter above hers; their noses were touching.

They kissed for the first time.

Conor felt something akin to the sensation of flying. But this was different, because his feet were planted firmly on the ground and he had the girl he had been waiting for, for the entirety of his life, kissing him back. Her hands that were around his neck moved to grip his hair and his eyes rolled back into his head a little.

The kiss became more heated as tongues met. Conor took this as the time to pull back, sensing that things would go too far if they carried on. His worry nagged at the back of his mind through the lethargic, joyous haze that the kiss had induced. She hadn't said anything about it yet and that made him both anxious and hopeful.

He cupped her cheek with his warm, rough palm and she leant into it. "Are you okay?" he asked gently and stroked the skin under her tired eyes with the pad of his thumb.

"Bad dream." Isabella answered with a very unladylike yawn stifled against his chest.

"Want to talk about it?"

"No." She rested the side of her face over where his heart was, both hearing and feeling the slightly faster rhythm than usual from their kiss. "I still can't believe you're here." The statement was enough to nearly make Conor's eyes water. "I keep thinking you're going to disappear any minute."

He took her face in between his hands gently. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise." He whispered in a voice just as low as hers then granted her a single chaste kiss. "You look tired." He accused as she yawned again and stroked the skin below her eyes with her thumbs.

"So do you." She countered. He didn't deny it.

"We should go back to bed."

"Yes. We should." Neither of them moved.

"Do you not want to be alone either?" Asked Conor with a light smile.

Isabella bit her lip. "What shall we do?"

Conor hesitated. "What would you say to spending the night with me?" He asked carefully.

Isabella waited for a second then nodded whilst repressing her girlish urge to squeal excitedly at the fact that they would be sharing a bed. _You are queen. You are queen! The time for young trivialities is over!_

He offered his hand to her, she took it and together they walked to the bed. Conor blew out the lighted candle and they climbed in on their respective sides to meet in the middle in what felt like a surprisingly natural gesture.

Isabella lay with her back to Conor and he shaped his body around her delicate, warmer one. Something was bothering her. It had been bothering her for the past few hours since he'd said it. Conor could feel the tension in her shoulders but decided not to push it – thinking that she just felt awkward from their situation.

After a moment, she sighed. "I'm here for you Conor." She said softly. "You do know that don't you?"

Instead of answering aloud, he brushed her hair back and placed a gentle kiss against the back of her neck.

"Your parents may have believed you but I don't." Heart rate suddenly pounding in his ears, Conor stiffened, his eyes widening and blinking unnecessarily. The panic was back swelling in his chest as his brain scrambled round for excuses or ways to discourage her or something to just make her stop. "I'm not going to push you." She said oblivious to his distress. "I know you'll tell us when you're ready but I know something really bad must have happened for it to come to this and I saw your back. Conor…"

Conor fretted, his suspicions confirmed.

"If you need someone to talk to…or if you…" She ran out of words to say and refused to turn round to look at him out of fear.

Guilt tugged at Conor, ripping at his flesh with painful tenacious fingers. Evidently his 'grand' plan of lying did not work as well as he thought. The possibility that his parents could have seen through his deceit was even worse. He hadn't seen them in so long and all he'd told them was lies! Irritation bubbled up inside of him, irritation at himself for being stupid enough to make up some cock-and-bull story and a small irrational irritation at them.

It would be impossible for them to understand once he told them the truth. They would give him their sympathy and their concern and their goddamn pity; they would act understanding but they wouldn't be really, they couldn't be. They wouldn't know what it felt like to have everything taken away from you and them some and then a complimentary kick in the gut just for the fun of it. They wouldn't know what it felt like to have absolutely nothing other than a silly childish dream of flight.

They did not know his hardships. Even Isabella who had lost her father still had Conor's parents to lean on when she needed them. Conor had had to do it himself, pull himself up at the tender age of fourteen without even any bootstraps to cling onto. And now at seventeen he was so much _older _than he should have been.

Conor sighed, letting all his frustration go. It was hard for him but he whispered a 'thank you' into the back of her neck. The words were off-sounding and without meaning but they were sadly necessary.

Isabella fell asleep soon after without another word spoken.

Conor lay awake for a long while. That little resentment rekindled in the back of his mind but his self-hatred surged.

Getting to sleep was uncomfortable and restless but afterwards it was positively blissful; deep, soothing and dreamless, rivaled only by sleep from before everything had started.

--

Declan woke up the next morning stiff from his awkward position on the sofa. He had had the most peculiar dream and it saddened him somewhat because that's all it was – a dream.

It all seemed strangely vivid and real but he knew better, it wasn't the first time he had dreamt of Conor.

The glider perched innocently on the back of the other sofa. The cogs in Declan's sleep befuddled brain slowly began to grind together. "Oh!" he gasped and leapt up off the sofa, careful not to wake Sean or Catherine in the process.

He sprinted up the stairs to Conor's room but paused short. What if he was wrong though? What if it all was just a dream? Declan carried on slower, preparing himself for the disappointment in case Conor wasn't actually there but also dying to run and see his returned son.

The door stood ajar when he arrived, with a trembling hand he pushed it fully open.

Both Conor and Isabella were lying in the bed though you could hardly tell it was Conor, his face was buried so far into Isabella's hair.

They both lay peacefully sleeping. Declan surged with joy. His son had returned! He repressed the urge to move or make any noise that would wake the couple, he just stood there, grinning like a fool.

After a minute he felt a hand on his shoulder. Catherine was standing next to him, holding baby Sean – now awake – in her arms. Declan wrapped an arm around his wife's waist and took the boy into his other arm. Sean squealed in delight and threw his arms around his father's neck, clutching with little cubby fingers to Declan's jacket that he still hadn't removed from the night before.

"They're sweet together aren't they." Said Catherine referring to Conor and Isabella asleep and oblivious in bed.

"When do you think it will happen?" Asked Declan.

Catherine wrapped her arm around Declan's back in turn and started to lead him away. "I think it already has."


	4. Chapter 4: A Hero's Welcome

**Disclaimer: Me Nothing Owns!**

**What has happened so far: **Conor has defeated Bonvilain in a very dramatic battle, Conor explained to his family where he's been for the last few years but lied thinking they couldn't handle the truth. Isabella and Conor couldn't sleep so she came to his room; they kissed in an incredibly cheesy fashion and Isabella admitted that she knew he was lying. Declan then walked in on them in the morning.

**Song Suggestion: **Viva la Vida by Coldplay **(Review if you love Coldplay too!)  
Chapter 4:** A Hero's Welcome**  
Third Person POV**

Conor awoke groggily in the morning. It was dark and he couldn't make out a thing in the blackness. Hmmm…so warm…so soft.

Soft?

The darkness was lovely and smooth against his cheek – silky. He raised a hand to brush away Isabella's hair that he had become tangled up in whilst asleep.

He grinned at her posture; she was curled up against his chest, somehow having turned over in the night. He had both arms wrapped around her back and her hair fanned out over the pillows. She was truly beautiful.

The door on the other side of the room stood ajar for some reason but he couldn't find the will to go over and close it.

Conor turned back to the sleeping girl in his arms. He pulled himself closer to her which was quite a feat in itself and rested his face on her hair again. She pushed her face into the crook of his neck and snaked her arm around his waist still asleep. Conor grinned.

Everything stayed quiet as Conor remembered the events of the previous night. He hadn't known what to expect when he entered the window but it certainly wasn't that. He remembered thinking before that he would probably be in a holding cell by now – him instead of Bonvilain – soon to be shipped off back to Little Saltee. The contrast to the real events was startling.

Conor moved his face slightly, lowering to kiss Isabella's temple sweetly then he admitted to her what he had never fully admitted to her before. "I love you." He whispered.

"I love you too."

Conor's eyes widened dramatically and he stared down at the now very awake Isabella in his arms. She was looking up at him and smiling slightly. He looked away, blushing scarlet.

"You're awake…" He pointed out still refusing to meet her gaze.

"Yes." She replied though it wasn't a question.

"Don't be embarrassed." She whispered when he still wouldn't look at her. If anything it just made him blush harder.

"Conor!" She reprimanded and touched her hand to his cheek trying to tilt his face downwards. It didn't work so instead she raised herself to plant a kiss on his chin.

"I thought you were asleep." He whispered lamely then pulled her closer to run his fingers through her hair.

"But I'm glad I woke up." She whispered back.

--

"So you finally decided to surface." Smirked Catherine when Isabella and Conor finally came down for breakfast.

"Hey, I was tired!" Conor defended himself.

"Humph." She grumbled jokingly and hugged them both tightly.

"Oh my goodness! Have you seen your eye?" She held him at arm's length and studied his face.

"No…" Conor raised his hand to his eye; it felt swollen and sore to the touch.

"It's black and blue! It must have been Bonvilain." Conor shrugged away her concerns, he'd had worse and he was quite certain that Bonvilain was in a much worse state right now.

He and Isabella sat down next to each other at the table, holding hands underneath so no one would see. Catherine _pretended_ not to notice.

Catherine placed two large plates of bacon and toast and eggs in front of the young couple to which they both dug in ravenously. "A hero's breakfast!" She announced with a bright smile at her son. It was a comparatively extravagant breakfast to the ones they usually had but Catherine decided it was worth it.

"I must send a messenger to the mainland later," announced Conor, "I need to contact Linus."

"And what is this friend of your like Conor?"

"I think you'll really like him mother, he's a very clever man and a brilliant cook as well. American originally." It didn't even occur to him to mention that his friend was blind. He was so used to it by now he thought nothing of it.

"Well I look forwards to it then." Smile Catherine warmly and hugged her eldest son from behind as he ate. She ran her hands through his blonde hair affectionately then paused. "You're hair's darker." She accused. "Is that grey I see? And…red?"

Conor shrugged feigning perfect ease. "I wouldn't know why." On the inside Conor was panicking. Did his mother suspect something as well? His cover story was fragile at best.

"Your voice has changed too." Again Conor shrugged, his latest way of answering questions, it was odd sometimes, talking to people who could see. "It's a bit deeper than before and you have a scar on the back of your neck." She noted, touching it with her cool fingers but unable to see where it carried on all down his back.

Visions over took Conor. A roughly cut stone wall in front of his face; his arms restrained by men on either side; a cringe-inducing noise; the burning, searing pain. He quashed them viciously using the composure he'd found in the pipe.

Sensing the stress, Isabella took action. She reached out for her glass of water but knocked it over in the process to create a diversion. "Oh Catherine, I'm so sorry…" She continued to apologise as Catherine bustled about to clear the spillage. "Here, let me help…"

"Nonsense, I can deal with this."

Conor threw the most grateful look he could manage to Isabella. She wasn't looking but she caught it and grabbed his hand that they had dropped to eat with and gave it a tight squeeze beneath the table.

After breakfast Isabella had to leave for official business at the palace. It was still hard for Conor to grasp the concept of her being queen.

Conor walked to the docks to greet Linus when his boat come in and ended up being ten minutes early. He sat on the little docking platform with his feet hanging over the edge as fishermen scurried about with their nets behind him. The stench of fish and salt was strong. And he loved it, it was homely. The summer sun was shining brightly and it was one of the very rare days on the Saltee Islands that there was not a cloud in the sky.

The local baker and his wife walked past him holding a baby in her arms. Conor smiled as he watched them, they were nice people and Mary always gave him an free biscuit when he visited them when he was younger. He knew that they had been trying for a child for a number of years and finally they had one.

So much had changed on the island; it was so different than he'd remembered…but still exactly the same.

He realised that he had been staring at Mary and now she was watching him too as her husband pushed the little sailing boat out that they'd climbed into. Her brows furrowed in confusion and then she shook her head as if banishing a thought.

Conor looked away immediately. He pulled a knee up to his chest and hugged it. It was a strange notion for Conor, before everyone had known him; he was well liked among the islanders and was always greeted or smiled at. Now there was nothing of the sort. He was just another stranger to them, unnoticeable, invisible. The anonymity was nice in many ways. There were no standards to keep up when nobody cared who you were.

Walking down the streets of his old home in broad daylight had felt odd to him too. He almost felt like he should be skulking down the alleyways, sticking to the shadows and wearing a hood. Hiding. There was gossip among the islanders about the Airman but Conor was not questioned as he walked. Instead of giving in to his instincts, Conor did he opposite, he brought himself to his full impressive height, squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. He walked with purpose and determination and grace.

Conor Broekhart. A free man.

--

A little boat was skipping along the waves in the distance and Conor assumed it was Linus' boat. He waited impatiently for it to arrive and after what felt like years, it finally docked. Conor hopped up off the ground to help the sailor pull the tiny ship in and secured it with the mooring line. Conor passed the man a few shillings and then greeted his battered and bruised friend.

"Hello Conor." Linus replied as he stepped of the boat with help. "How did it go? How was the flight? How did your family react?" He bombarded the boy with questions.

Conor took the blind man's arm and started steering him towards the house. "The flight was…interesting…The plane got across the water but it was falling apart, I would have had to crash land anyway but the Wall Guards started shooting thinking that I was going to attack the queen."

"Oh no! Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine. Well, I have a few bruises but otherwise I'm fit as a fiddle. I used the glider to fly straight through the window. It was a good idea of yours to wear it."

"Naturally, it was my idea." Linus joked. "What happened next?"

"I entered the window, fought with Bonvilain a bit, got a black eye, got attacked by father and mother and Isabella because they thought I was French spy and-"

"Why would they think you a French spy?"

"Maybe the accent I put on didn't help. I thought they wouldn't listen to me if they found out who I really was."

Linus shook his head incredulously. Really? How could such a genius be so _stupid_?

"As it turns out," Conor continued, "they all thought I was dead. Bonvilain told a different lie to each party. My father thought it was somebody else when he saw me in that holding cell. My mother and Isabella weren't even told of that encounter."

"So how did they react when you told them about being a salt?"

Conor made rapid shushing noises, looking around suspiciously to see if anyone had heard. Nobody had. They had stopped by now at the only tea café on the island to talk some more. "I…I didn't tell them."

"What?! Why on earth not?" Linus asked bewildered.

The only waitress of the café approached their table asking what they would like to order. "Nothing for the moment Alice. Thank you." Conor addressed her. She gave the hansom young stranger who new her name a questioning look but scuttled away nonetheless. She hadn't recognised him but why would she? To Alice, Conor Broekhart had been dead for a number of years.

"You should have seen them last night." Said Conor returning to their conversation. "They were so torn up about my return, they couldn't have handled it Linus. My father already blames himself for my arrest; he does not need to feel anymore guilty."

"I understand what you are saying Conor but you should have told them. They deserve that much and you can't hide this from them forever. I'm sure they suspect something's up already."

"Isabella already does." Admitted Conor sullenly. "She told me she didn't believe what I said last night but that she wouldn't push me for an answer till I was ready. And I fear my mother suspects something as well."

"Speaking of the young Isabella? How are the two of you?" The question was innocent but the look on Linus' face was not.

"Err…" Conor stuttered for a moment, "none of your business!!" He said a little too loudly causing a few people to look around and took Linus by the arm to drag him home. Linus laughed at his young friend which abruptly brought on a coughing fit that had him bent double and clutching his broken ribs.

"Are you okay?" asked said young friend.

"Yes, just a little tender. So what is the story so far?"

"When they moved me from the holding cell, I beat away the guards on either side of me, pilfered the keys and escaped. I spent a while in London, a year doing odd jobs and then the last year in Kilmore Quay living with you after we met on the mainland and I found out you were a spy originally working for Nicholas."

Linus just sighed instead of answering.

Conor tried the doorknob as they arrived at the door but it was locked so he resorted to knocking. The door flung open within a matter of seconds and there stood Catherine in all her motherly glory with Sean clinging to her calf and some flour in her hair.

"Conor! Conor! Conor!" Squealed Sean in delight and ran forwards to greet his elder brother by hugging him round his shin. The top of his little head only reached Conor's knee.

"Mother, I would like you to meet my friend Linus." Catherine managed to keep back her small gasp at Linus' condition. Admittedly it did look rather painful with the 'x's branded across his forever closed eyes and every inch of his skin black and blue.

Linus held his hand out blindly and Catherine placed her hand in it which Linus raised to his split lips. Catherine sent her son a reprimanding look for not telling her of this but greeted the blind man before her warmly. She was never one to judge.

"It is a pleasure to meet you Mrs Broekhart."

"The pleasure is all mine and please, do call me Catherine."

"Conor?!" Came a…squeal, essentially, from inside and then Isabella was at the door. She stayed there all of a second before thoughtlessly launching herself into Conor's arms who had to catch the beautiful queen before she knocked them both over. Sean cleverly stepped out of the way from under their feet.

Catherine coughed pointedly after a few minutes of this.

Isabella extricated herself from Conor with a blush then regarded the man before her. Linus held out his hand to her as well with a courteous bow. "Mi'lady." He offered.

Isabella ignored his hand and went to kiss his left cheek instead. The only part of his body that she could see that wasn't bruised. "Any friend of Conor's is a friend of mine."

Conor had to hide his laugh at this statement as he thought of Isabella meeting Otto Malarkey. "Where's father?" Asked Conor.

"He's had to stay behind working," Catherine answered as they all stepped inside. "He has told a select few of the other guards about what happened and they're hunting out all Bonvilain's mercenaries in case there is an uprising once everyone finds out that you're alive."

Conor nodded.

Isabella and Conor walked a little behind Linus and Catherine who had struck up a jolly conversation. Sean waddled along behind them to pull on one of Isabella's many skirts. She smiled down at him and lifted the two year old to balance his on her hip. A Broekhart boy on either side.

"Did you manage to finish your duties?" Asked Conor with a hand placed at her lower back.

"Most of them, but Richard – our new lawyer – was annoying me so I took my leave."

They all sat around the large kitchen table from then on, simply talking and catching up with one another. It was so much liked how he and his parents used to do after their evening meal that Conor couldn't help but smile. Declan joined them after an hour and a half when he returned home for his lunch.

"So you never did tell us how you found out Bonvilain's plans." Stated Declan at a lull in the conversation.

"It was Bonvilain himself who told us." Conor started.

"Conor was out of the house and I was cooking a meal so I had the roof door open to clear the fumes. The Marshall and his bloodhound Arif came for Conor and did this to me." Linus motioned to his battered body. "I managed to set off the flares from the roof to alert Conor who was down at Curracloe beach setting the aeroplane up for transport to America. Bonvilain and Arif thought the villagers would come so left after telling me of the poisoned meal he had planned."

"Why would he tell you of the meal?" asked Catherine. "It makes no sense if he was trying to stop you from saving us."

"We suspect that he planned on killing the three of you and then blaming the Airman for it." Answered Conor. "It would not be the first time Bonvilain has succeeded in blaming me for a crime I did not commit."

"Why was the aeroplane being sent to America?" Asked Isabella, picking up on something Linus had said before.

"I saw nothing left for me here, I planned to move to America and meet the other airmen there. Linus did not wish to join me so we decided that I would send the craft to New York and Linus and I would travel to London to spend a week in the Savoy and possibly review our decisions."

"I'd been to the Savoy before…" added Linus and carried on with his tirade about water closets whenever the subject was broached. He was delighted greatly therefore when he found out from Isabella that the palace had had a few of them installed in select bathrooms.

They ate lunch together then it was time for Declan to leave again. "How is the work coming along?" Asked Conor.

"We have found a fair few of Bonvilain's guards. They're crude, most of them and put up much resistance so we have to use force. Two of my men have already been injured but not too seriously thank goodness. One of the four men we have already dealt with died in the tussle." This was met with compassionate silence by the other four. He may have been a mercenary but he was still a person.

"It may be an idea for you to lay low until we finish Conor." Warned his father. "We don't know how many of these crooks know about Bonvilain's plans or what happened inside the tower. There could be an unknown number of them after your head so keep a low profile until they're sorted out."

"Of course. I shall be as a spy to the shadows." Conor replied.

**A/N: So I went back to the other chapters and re-posted them with a few minor **_**minor**_** changes like adding a 'the' and correcting a couple of spelling mistakes. You certainly do not have to re-read them if you've already read them at some stage before in the past. **

**I'm so sorry for the long time it took me to update but I've had four days off school in the last week and a half because of the snow and ice so I've been using those for updating. Like today I walked up to school only to be told by one of the teachers that we were closed and to turn back home. It was so icy that I stood on the pavement unmoving and just slid down the road (it is quite a steep road) then one of the teachers who really needed to get into school, (no joke) **_**crawled**_** across the road on her hands and knees. It was fun to watch. **

**Review if you love snow days too! (If you have them wherever you are that is.) **


	5. Chapter 5: Gravity

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. **

**What has happened so far: **Conor and Bonvilain fought and he explained to his family where he's been for the last few years but lied thinking they couldn't handle the truth. Isabella and Conor couldn't sleep so she came to his room; they kissed in an incredibly cheesy fashion and Isabella admitted that she knew he was lying. In the morning at breakfast Catherine starts getting suspicious about the changes in Conor, Linus comes to visit and Declan and his merry men go off in search of Bonvilain's mercenaries while Conor lays low.

**Song Suggestion: I have two this time because I love them both and can't decide which fits best. Does anybody even look at these anyway? I might just stop.**  
- Gravity by Coldplay/Embrace **(They both did versions)**  
- Scar Tissue by Red Hot Chili Peppers **(Chili is spelt correctly btw!)****  
Chapter 5: **Gravity**  
Third Person POV**

The last few days had been quiet for Conor, familiar in such a way that made him want to grin and weep all at the same time.

Laying low had consisted mainly of staying at home with his mother and brother and occasionally Isabella when she wasn't at the palace doing business. Declan was out working almost all day, only returning for meals whilst on the search for Bonvilain's accomplices with his men.

By the fourth day Conor had been about ready to climb up the walls. He was going stir crazy being cooped up inside all the time even though he went outside at every chance he got.

Luckily however, that fourth day was also the day that Declan and his men finished their work and Isabella announced to the people of Saltee that Conor was alive and back. Isabella was all for having a huge speech in the town square, gathering the whole island's inhabitants together to announce Conor's return in a large dramatic style. The old Conor Broekhart probably wouldn't have minded all the attention, he probably would have basked in the glory of being classed a hero by everyone for saving the queen – again.

Conor Finn however was much more reserved, less easy-going, always on edge. This Conor knew that many people would dislike him and possibly create trouble for his cover story. This Conor was quieter and more commanding, he was crueller in many ways and so completely different to the boy everyone had known before. This change had affected his family too, both consciously and subconsciously.

He had then requested (most insistently) that a big upheaval was not made over him. Isabella finally conceded to simply spreading rumours, the word soon spread of Conor's return and then everybody knew he was back. Some didn't bother him when he went out but then there would be the obnoxious dullards who would pester him incessantly. Even those who did not confront him still stared. He could feel their eyes on him everywhere he went and then when he looked himself, everyone would suddenly look away.

Conor found himself questioning everything. He had taken to walking the wall that enclosed the island at least twice a day. He thought much about the changes around his family and his home. Conor still wasn't one hundred percent sure how he felt about his little brother. He loved the boy deep down, Sean was his brother after all, but he also annoyed him and it was strange having him around. Conor had never had anything like this before.

He was mainly unsure of how he felt about his parents. Being thrown in prison and living as an adult so much older than he really was had caused him to age quickly, both mentally and physically. And it made him feel so much younger when he was around his parents because they still treated him as if he were the fourteen year old they remembered, not the twenty one year old Conor had grown accustomed to being. Having them do so much for him had once been taken for granted but now it was overbearing and suffocating. Conor was used to independence, doing what he wanted, when he wanted, without question. But now he couldn't.

He wasn't sure what to think of his parents anymore either. He didn't blame them for their actions, they were just happy to have their son back. And he didn't feel like they were trying to replace him with Sean, and he wasn't put out by that prospect, and he wasn't jealous of their relationship with Sean and he wasn't saying they weren't entitled to another son if they wanted one…but…

Precisely: but.

Conor didn't _resent_ his parents as such…but he did often wonder what his life would have been like if his father had recognised him inside the cell and what his life would have been like if he hadn't had to save them from Bonvilain what felt like a lifetime ago. He might have been in America by now if he hadn't. He might have been on a boat travelling over to America. He might have been in a water closet at the Savoy in the room next to Linus. He might have been sitting on the roof of the tower Forlorn Point working on a new set of propellers. He might have been sleeping off a whole night's flying round the skies on the glider. His family might have been dead and he would never have known. Hugo Bonvilain might have announced himself the new ruler and started turning Greater Saltee into as much of a hellhole as Little Saltee. The possibilities were endless.

He wasn't sure if he liked having everyone know him again. He wasn't invisible anymore and he wondered if it would've been better just to stay forgotten. Sometimes it's nice having no one know you. It was one of the reasons he looked forwards to going to America so much, the prospect of a new land, a new world to explore, a new life to fulfil; to start from scratch and meet new people and _be invisible_. Yes of course he loved his family, and yes of course he liked knowing that they cared and yes of course he liked being part of a family unit again. But they still niggled away at him, the 'what if?'s.

What would his life be like now if he'd acted differently?

It was ironic that the thing Conor had pined for, for so long, he now wasn't sure he wanted anymore. No, he did want it, but… He hadn't really expected to get almost the exact same life he'd had before handed back to him on a silver platter. The life Conor had gotten back was almost the exact same, but Conor as a person wasn't he same as he once was. Looking back, he seemed so childish and naïve then – probably because he was in comparison to now. The islands seemed to be in some sort of time warp, nobody seemed to have aged, nothing seemed to have changed, where as on the mainland, things had. But things had changed on the islands; the most noticeable was Isabella coming to power but smaller things as well, new comers and leavers, constant miniscule changes. Maybe it was just his perception; smaller events no longer had the significance they once had.

Conor sighed and continued his walk. _It's all done with now. _

--

It was whilst he was on one of these walks that he decided to stop at a little seat the had been carved out of the north side of the wall. It provided a beautiful view of the village with the church in the back followed by nothing but sea beyond which was as flat as a mill pond today despite the strong breeze. Isabella had decided to accompany Conor on this walk and they sat together, his arm wrapped around her shoulders.

The wind whipped Isabella's dark hair around her face, the sun caught on the smoky tendrils making them shine and glisten. Conor was transfixed by their movements as she frowned and tried to catch them all and hold them still. He lent in to kiss her temple. "You look beautiful." He whispered in her ear making her blush and lean into his shoulder, abandoning her attempt to control her hair much to Conor's delight.

Conor closed his eyes feeling peaceful. He let his head loll backwards and the sun warm his face. When he opened his eyes, he could see the big fluffy white clouds passing over head. There were two seabirds circling each other also, like so many other birds that were native to the Saltee Islands. They ducked and weaved and dived and swooped and played in the air above the young couple's heads. The birds were obviously quite large and silhouetted black against the sky but too far up to tell what they were. Something about the pair intrigued Conor as they flew off in the direction of the mainland. At one point they flew one above the other so from below it looked like there was only one bird. That image just couldn't shake itself from his head.

"It must be quite lonely up there." Said Isabella, following the direction of Conor's eyes and mistaking the look on his face for a longing of the skies.

"In some ways." He agreed. The question did not surprise him, Isabella had spoken to him many times about flying, she may have been a better business woman than scientist but she still shared her father's keen obsession with new gadgets and toys.

"What is it?" She asked as he stared at her with an odd look on his face. His thoughts were racing. _It couldn't…it wouldn't…in theory…?_

"Conor?" She asked, as the boy in question suddenly jumped up, gave her a quick peck on the lips as an apologetic goodbye, then took off towards the castle at full speed with a shouted 'Sorry' over his shoulder.

Within a half hour's time Conor was on a boat skipping jauntily across the waves to the mainland after saying goodbye to his family, the folded up glider at his feet. Upon arriving, he rushed straight for the tower. The heavenly aroma of Linus' cooking wafted out in a very pleasant greeting.

"Conor?" Asked the older man. "Is that you?"

"Hello." Replied Conor, already on his way through the kitchen and down to the laboratory.

"What are you doing back here?"

"I had a brainwave on the island." His fingers were jittery with anticipation of designing and tinkering with ideas. "I need the equipment here to build and test it…" He then proceeded to explain said brainwave to Linus.

"Ahh, a difficult task, are you sure it shall work?"

"The theory is sound. I just need to build the new part and possibly make a few alterations to the wings." Conor was already halfway to the laboratory when Linus called out.

"Are you sure you don't want to eat first?"

"Already done so!"

"There's hot chocolate…" He tempted.

Conor stood with a hand on the doorway, torn between scientific obsession and the ever hungry seventeen year old inside. Eventually science won. "I really want to start this…but I would greatly appreciate it if you could bring the hot chocolate down to me…" Without waiting for an answer, Conor set off down the stairs. "Thank you!" he called back. Linus smiled and shook his head at his young friend.

Downstairs, Conor took the glider and spread it out across the _huge_ workbench that was covered in nicks and gouges and black smudges where tools had missed their intended mark. He then pulled out the thick roll of designs that was actually layer upon layer of very thin see-through paper, each containing a detailed drawing of just one component so that when aligned the picture became full. He pinned these sheets of paper up on the cork board that covered most of one wall and then pinned a fresh piece over the top of all those. With a freshly sharpened pencil in hand, he started.

Linus came down at regular intervals to collect the various mugs that, previous to consumption, had contained copious amounts of hot chocolate and tea. Conor did not leave that one room for the next three days other than for bathroom breaks and sleeping and sometimes not even meals which he had brought down to him.

It would be fair to say that Conor could get a little obsessive when he got an idea that sparked a particular interest.

There were multiple pencils strewn across the table and floor that had been thrown haphazardly over his shoulder in annoyance when they grew too short for use from excessive sharpening. He had further pencils all over his person, including between his teeth, behind his ear, in various pockets that then stabbed him whenever he sat or bent over, not to mention the two in his hand. Sheets of used, crumpled tracing paper were also scattered around, many half torn in frustration as yet another plan proved fruitless.

Finally, on the third day, Conor stepped back from his work, at long last satisfied with his latest and most successful design. He was so pleased with this design in fact, that he had to go fetch Linus to show it to him. Of course the blind man couldn't actually see it, so Conor explained each tiny aspect in great deal, using phrases like up draught, and rising thermals and wind resistance which Linus did not understand. Cleverly, Linus did not mention this or question anything that Conor described to him; he was careful to keep his face politely interested and nod whenever there was a pause whereas in truth he was actually wondering what he should cook for tea.

Conor ended up staying for a further four days at the tower, building, testing and trialling this new design, switching between the spread out glider, the drawings pinned to the wall and the various materials and tools around the room. The modifications were complete by the second day and after that nearly all of Conor's days were spent in the air, trying the alterations for adjustments that were necessary and gradually adding slightly more weight each time he ascended. Despite a few teething problems at first which would have been suspected, everything ran smoothly and in the end he was able to easily carry and steer with the equivalent weight of another person. A certain girl to be precise.

--

"Conor, are you sure it's safe?" Her voice was panicked and it was the sixth time she'd asked him that.

Conor refrained from rolling his eyes at the queen which was most probably a very wise decision considering her current worry. "One hundred percent." He replied the same answer he had the previous five times before.

In truth wasn't one hundred percent sure like he said he was. There was always an element of the unknown with flying; you could never predict the problems that could occur whilst in the air. Wisely, he didn't tell Isabella this either.

So here they were, standing together on top of the tower at Forlorn Point with Conor already strapped into the glider. The loud whir of the steam fans behind them meant they had to almost shout to hear each other over the noise. The weather conditions were perfect for flying and Conor had chosen this time to go up in particular as the sun was low in the sky, painting everything in pinks and reds that would look even more stunning than usual from the air. His plan was to fly with her over to the islands, do a single circuit and then land outside the Palace Gates in Promontory Square.

Isabella stood in front of Conor looking particularly dashing in her own set of flying leathers, cap and goggles. "But are you really sure?" She worried again.

This time Conor couldn't resist rolling his eyes and did so. Instead of answering, he took her face between his hands (a difficult thing to do, strapped in the way he was) and kissed her. "You agreed to this, remember?"

"Yes but…but…"

"But nothing, you know you'll enjoy it."

The young queen grumbled quietly to herself about how she'd have to hang him later for this. Conor finished checking and tightening his own straps till they were almost painful then beckoned Isabella over to him. She tried to giggle at how silly he looked, encased completely in black with huge black wing like shapes sprouting from his back but the sound died in her throat.

He was serious. Completely and surely serious. She had known he was serious when he asked three days previously after returning from the tower they now stood on. It hadn't seemed real when he'd posed the question, just a far off deadline. And now the moment was here. _Oh lord. _

Isabella tried to comfort herself with how many times Conor had done this before, how good a scientist he was, how thoroughly he would have planned this…it didn't work any. And now he was beckoning her closer, inviting her to _willingly_ launch herself up into the air with nothing but a few scraps of material and balsa wood twigs to hold them up. _This is lunacy._

She took Conor's outstretched hand after a moment and, with a little difficulty, wriggled into the harness he had created. The design distributed her weight evenly and there was a bar in line with her shoulders to rest her hand on. There was a square of leather that would hold her upper body, straps that would go around her thighs and supports for her ankles to rest in once they were in the air. She waited nervously as Conor fiddled with the straps and almost called a stop to their actions three times.

She was already pressed closely to his chest but then the buckles just got tighter and tighter. Her breasts felt crushed by the force and the pressure meant it was impossible to take in deep breaths. She felt so squeezed in against his chest that she was sure from now on there would forever be an Isabella-shaped indent into his body.

Every single strap was checked at least three times. It was hands down the most uncomfortable, squashed position she had ever been in. Even worse than wearing a corset. The situation was made even direr however by the fact that she had an itch. A bad itch.

"You ready?" Asked Conor from behind and placed his hands on the bar either side of hers. He rubbed the backs of her hands with his gloved thumbs. _Last chance to pull away. Last chance! _She didn't, though her hands shook with adrenalin and her stomach churned uneasily. _This isn't safe. This isn't safe. Humans are meant to stay on the ground!_

A shiny black lock had escaped Isabella's flying cap and hung there innocently in the gap between cap and jacket. There was something about that curl. Conor couldn't help but strain his head forwards to kiss it. And then he continued to kiss the back of her neck, up and down making Isabella loose focus from her fretting, as had become his intention.

"On one…" whispered Conor from just behind her ear with a slow step backwards. Isabella forgot the significance of the tiny little number at the feel of his lips against her skin again.

"Three..." Another step back. "Two…" Another step back.

He didn't wait for one but made the final leap backwards to launch them into the flow of warm air. The glider took perfectly, creaking at the rapid ascent. Isabella froze as the ground mapped out below her. _Far below her. _She didn't scream; she couldn't, so instead she whimpered in fear as they raced upwards but the noise was lost in the rushing wind. The climb finished and they hung there peacefully in the air for a moment before the wind caught them and sent them sailing forwards through the air.

Isabella's body was paralyzed by the raw terror and adrenalin that filled her to the brim. Her hands ached already from the tight grip on the handle bar. Her shoulders cramped from the tension but she couldn't move to stop the pain. Her eyes were fixed in a wide stare at the ground below. Flying. Floating above ground. Nothing physically holding them up other than a wind they could not see nor control. Flying. She whimpered, suddenly very glad for the constricting binds that crushed her in so tightly.

Conor struggled and wriggled above her as he fought the contraption they were fastened to. They were over the water by now and a flock of cormorants flew gracefully below.

Isabella felt like there was almost two of her, like her mind and her body had separated and while her body was back on the ground, her mind was up here, soaring with Conor. She couldn't feel herself anymore, whether it was from the pain or the adrenalin she couldn't tell but she found herself almost starting to_ like _flying. As long as she didn't think about what _wasn't _holding them up then she actually enjoyed the feeling.

Their journey through the air was dangerous and reckless and the adrenalin frazzled all her nerve endings and she shook with a nervous energy. But she _liked it_!

The islands were almost below them, cast in a rosy glow from the setting sun. The white tips on the rolling waves were visible from up here as they crashed down on the rocks but the sound could not be heard. People milled about looking like little black ants under a stone. Conor nudged the tail bar with his foot, steering the craft over to the East on their circuit of the island. He had picked the best day and time by far. Everything had a rare pinkish hue to it; the many sea-birds that were native to the islands were coming in to roost so the edges were alive with activity. The church spire raised up grandly and the stained glass windows caught the light, projecting rainbows onto the surrounding buildings which could only be seen from such a far away view.

Conor embarked on their decent as the glider rounded the North West side of the island. He came down in a wide arc, loosing altitude the further along the North side they went and struggling with the contraption as the wind tried to lift them out to sea. They had slowed dramatically and were hanging just above the level of the houses. Many people had turned to watch as they landed with a short run off to dispel the force.

Isabella couldn't contain her disappointment as their feet touched ground. She felt more alive in that moment than she had in all her life put together; her body was a live wire that couldn't be controlled. Conor was wary of her reaction as he carefully unfastened the straining ties. He could feel her body shaking, whether animated with excitement or trembling in fear he couldn't tell. The cramp from their awkward positions crippled her movements but as soon as the straps were loosened enough, Isabella turned and flung her arms around his neck without even stepping out of the frame. The force of her actions made him take a step backwards to steady them it was all he could do to hug the grinning queen back.

Isabella bounced on her tiptoes as she buried her face in his shoulder, goggles ripped off her face and dangling in her hand. She squealed into Conor's leather clad skin with the onslaught of emotions that accompanied the most terrifying and the most exhilarating event of her life so far. Beyond words, it was all Isabella could do to pull Conor's goggles away from his eyes, grab his face between her hands and kiss him for all she was worth.

The crowd of islanders that had gathered around the pair clapped and cheered.

**A/N: So here's yet another chapter! This one is an especially long chapter for you guys because I love you that much! I quite like this chapter but I'm actually really excited about writing the next, I love the plot line for that one. Is that sad? Yeah, probably. Also I would like you to know that this is the longest chapter I have written so far! Go me! **

**Till next time. Maniacinthemaking**


	6. Chapter 6: Dreaded Return

**Disclaimer: How many times do I have to tell you guys? I do not own Airman! **

**What has happened so far: **Conor and Bonvilain fought and he explained to his family where he's been for the last few years but lied thinking they couldn't handle the truth. Isabella and Conor kissed in an incredibly cheesy fashion and Isabella admitted that she knew he was lying. At breakfast Catherine starts getting suspicious about the changes in Conor, Linus comes to visit and Declan and his merry men go off in search of Bonvilain's mercenaries while Conor lays low. Conor wonders for a long time whilst laying low about his family and the changes around the Saltees. Conor gets inspiration for a new part of the glider and disappears off to the tower to go build it. He and Isabella then go flying together.

**Song Suggestion: **Somewhere I Belong by Linkin Park**  
Chapter 6: **Dreaded Return**  
Third Person POV**

It was nearing the third week since Conor had returned to his family and fought Bonvilain. He sat at the dining table with his family, Isabella and Linus of whom the latter had stayed the night. They talked and joked as all ate a hearty breakfast of egg and toast.

"What time would you like to set sail?" Declan asked of Isabella.

"As soon as possible I should think." She replied. "Why not get this over with?"

"Where are you going?" Asked Conor who was thoroughly confused and would soon be very much regretting his simple question.

"We are to visit Little Saltee." Conor choked on his mouthful of eggs. "Declan and I have been planning the trip for some time, we wish to witness the extent of Bonvilain's infiltration inside the prison." She smiled excitedly. "We plan to dress inconspicuously, like spies. I am to dress as a man! Can you imagine it?" Linus had resorted to patting Conor's back in aid of his incessant splutters but was misguided in his intention and was actually thumping the top of his arm instead.

"You would be welcome to join us if you should like." His father offered as Conor's choking finally subsided.

"Thank you but I think I shall stay behind. Really, I was going to-"

"I think it would be a very interesting trip for you Conor, very educational. You should go!" Interjected Linus. Conor kicked the man sitting next to him under the table. He had been pestering Conor to tell his family the truth from the moment he had found out that the boy lied.

"No. Really. I should stay behind, I was going to go and work on the aeroplane for a bit. I'll-"

"Nonsense!" Declared Linus over him yet again. "The aeroplane can wait, I think it shall be a useful visit for you, help you see how the other half live. You spend so much time working on that plane anyway, it'll give you a break."

"Yes." Said Declan before Conor could protest again. "So it is decided then. You shall join us on our trip." And with that he and Isabella raised themselves from the table to don the scruffiest clothes they owned. Conor offered a tight smile to his mother as he pushed away from the table, pulling – none too gently – his ex-friend with him by the elbow. Linus had conquered most of the layout of the house but was still guided to and fro a lot as he had been accustomed to over the years.

Isabella had borrowed an outfit from one of the kitchen hands to wear for the visit; he was a boy of about the same height as her and as many expected, slightly scatty upstairs. She had a grubby brown cap casing her hair and her boots were the old ones she'd used the year previously that could have been mistaken for men's. Catherine had helped her strap down her breasts with a long stretch of material that would around her chest many times and then her waist to hide her feminine curves. She had dirt smeared on her right cheek and could quite easily been confused for a male.

Isabella walked through the Broekhart home to Conor's room from the inside of which she could hear furious mutterings. She was excited greatly about all this dressing up and acting; it was like all the games she'd played with Conor when they were younger. She opened the door, being unable to eavesdrop on the too quiet words they were speaking and found Conor and Linus standing in the centre of the room in a heated near silent argument.

The pair stopped immediately at the creak of the door, both growing suspicious at what could have been overheard. Isabella showed no signs of hearing anything or not, which only served to make Conor even more on edge. He gaped at her for a moment. If he hadn't known it was her and didn't know her face as well as he did then he would never have recognised her.

Luckily for Conor, he had neglected shaving for the past few days and had thick band of darker coloured stubble growing over his jaw. He had planned upon making another visit to the water closet today but hadn't yet also luckily.

"Do hurry Conor!" The young queen chastised him. "Those clothes will most certainly not do. Cleary you have no idea of how to dress yourself for this situation." He ignored the irony of her statement.

"Of course Isabella, I was merely about to change when Linus interrupted me." Linus raised a eyebrow very slightly at Conor as had become his way of winking and then began his journey to the door.

"I shall be away then. I should not want to delay your quest at all." With a last impish grin the Isabella didn't catch, Linus left the room. Conor decided that he did truly hate that man. Isabella followed out the door.

"Your father and I shall be waiting downstairs." And with that last note, she parted too.

Conor pulled on a pair of old tatty trouser and much worn shirt that was now rather too small all the while grumbling about disloyal friend and pushy families. He was returning. He was returning to the dreaded hellhole that plagued his nightmares and overshadowed his every waking moment. Just closing his eyes, he could already smell the inside of the diving bell, stale air, sweat, blood and salt. The image was brutally snuffed out by Conor's mind the way he had trained himself to do over these long three years.

He should have been more resistant. He should have protested more. He should have thought of better excuses. Should've. Would've. Could've. He sighed. This moment had been coming for a long time and he knew it had. He had been preparing himself for this moment for the past three weeks; it was time to tell his family the truth about what had really happened to him. If there was any chance by god that they wouldn't have to figure it out this way then he would be eternally grateful.

He continued to grumble all the way downstairs to the front doorway where Declan and the very masculine looking Isabella waited. "Why such the grim mood?" Asked Linus brightly. Conor glared at his ex-friend who beamed back angelically, not seeing the glare but expecting it and feeling it's force. "Have fun!" Mr Wynter called after them with a jolly wave as they exited the door.

--

"What do you mean that you will not let us through?! We have important business here!" Demanded Declan of the guard stood before them. The ones up top had been lax as was most of this upper part of the island on the North Western side. This was the side used to keep up appearances should anyone come a looking as they were now. The salsa gardens were over on the south easterly side of the island, on a slightly lower level with a large raised platform separating it from their view. Conor knew from experienced what lay inside that platform, his left hand twitched reflexively at the memories.

There was a guard on top of the slight overhang above their heads who controlled the door from above like all the other doors apart from those on the cells. This was the cut off point to all usual inquirers; it was after this door that the horrors really began. All the hairs on Conor's body stood on end. Apprehension and panic and fear churned so loudly in his gut that he wondered how the others didn't hear it.

The three of them were kicking up so much of a fuss that an extra guard had been sent down to talk to them. His father was trying to reason with the man to let them inside and convince him of their authority. Both Conor and his father cut fearsome figures with their unusual height and stance but the portly man before them who had to be at least a foot and a half shorter if not more, would not budge. Isabella almost stepped in on multiple occasions, used to the authority of a queen and each time Conor or Declan would hold her back in reminder that she did not have that same authority as the young 'William' she had been rechristened.

Conor grew frustrated at the plump dullard in front of him and resorted to threat. Declan had been the one doing the talking so far and was growing more aggravated each moment but now Conor joined in the conversation, cutting across the both. Conor was standing closest to the little man with his left shoulder skewed more in that direction. Very obviously, he ran his right hand up his left arm, bunching the shirt as he did so until the battering ram tattoo was displayed, he casually scratched his left shoulder after making sure that the guard had noticed and cracked the knuckles of his left had ominously before removing his hand and letting the sleeve fall down again. "We have important business here." He stated in a low, authoritative voice. The guard studied his menacing face for a second before calling up to his fellow guard.

"Jaggers! These men have business inside. Important business. Let 'em through."

There was the grinding of bolts and the scuffle of feet as the heavy vertical bolt was winched up from above. The door swung open and they entered. Declan and _William_ waited till they were out of ear shot of the guards before bombarding Conor with question. They both turned to him at the same time but the questions died on their lips at seeing his expression. This Conor looked nothing like the one either of them knew now and certainly nothing like the Conor they remembered from three years ago. This Conor was intimidating and commanding, he demanded respect. His face was steely and his posture was rigid, drawn to full height, shoulders back and chin held high, emphasising his muscles.

Conor ignored their amazed faces as they simultaneously stopped walking to gawp at him. He carried on down the cobbled corridor, viciously fighting away the memories of the last time he'd passed down this way, so different back then. So different. Conor Broekhart's life may have well have been in black and white: there was bad and then there was good, there was Little Saltee and then there was Greater Saltee. Life was fair and those who wronged would be punished justly. _How naïve?!_

Conor Finn was so much worldlier. He knew of the saturation of injustice in society, the discrimination of the upper classes against the lowers with convicts being the bottom rung of the ladder. Most of the prisoners on Little Saltee were actually innocent, sentenced on the most flimsy of evidence or petty criminals who had served all their years and many more too. Life was harsh, it was callous and unkind and so were the people. People who would walk all over everyone else if it suited them and not think twice about it.

The corridor opened out to a square little room with a small pool about six feet by six sunk into the ground though the depth was indiscernible due to clouds of green algae that floated through it's murky depths. There were buckets lined up along the far wall. Conor stood unfeeling whilst the others walked up to the pool and peered in. "What do you think the clouds are?" Asked Isabella.

"Feeder mites." Conor answered emotionlessly before Declan had the chance to say that he didn't know. "Fresh water creatures bred specially for cleaning the prisoners who get dunked in the pool upon arrival. They're kept at specific temperatures and this is the only known pool of them outside Australia." He recounted the information that Billtoe had told him on his first day here. _Information saves lives. Remember everything. _The two stared at him like he'd grown another head. "Victor told me about them once." He lied easily and they believed him, it was like Victor to know all these facts and it was like Conor to remember them all.

There was another door on the opposite wall to the one they entered through. It had a lock on the front rather than the customary vertical bolt as it was seen as less important. The elder Broekhart went over to study it curiously, wondering how on earth they were going to get past without a key. Isabella tapped his shoulder and he turned to look. She was standing behind him, jangling a set of keys that she'd pilfered from the guard as they passed. "William!" Exclaimed Declan after very quickly correcting himself to her new name.

William shrugged modestly and tried out the keys in the lock. There were two on the ring and Conor was taken back to about a year after he'd arrived here. Billtoe was on another of his speeches about how great his kingdom was whilst Conor lapped up all the new information in case it would ever come in useful. The doors were of three categories, the sturdy ones with the locks controlled by guards above or below that blocked all major entrances and exits; smaller but still strong doors that were all fitted to open using the same key of which all guards carried a copy; then the cell doors that all had individual keys that were matched to the cells by a small shape carved into the side of the doorway which mirrored the one on the key handle.

There was a scream from the other side of the door, a sound Conor had grown oh-so accustomed to. Isabelladropped the keys in surprise and by the time she'd retrieved them and opened the door, there were only the retreating forms of two guards dragging a limp, sobbing, dripping wet boy between them by the underarms, he could have been no older than sixteen. The cattle brand had been abandoned by the side of the furnace, still glowing red. The room was hot and sticky and was full of the smell of cooking flesh. Conor empathised greatly with the traumatised boy who was being carted away to his cell this instant.

Isabella's eyes fell on the 'S' shaped brand. She covered her mouth with her hand in horror and immediately sought the comfort of Conor's chest. Conor's body was unyielding as he gave her back stiff gentle pats. He was a different man in here to the one he had been outside.

"We should carry on." Said Declan as he walked over to the door the guards had taken the prisoner through. It had caught on a protruding stone on the floor meaning the lock had not clicked fastened and Declan opened it enough to poked his head out and check corridor beyond.

Conor and Isabella followed after him once they were sure the coast was clear. The three continued down the never ending maze of passage ways, there were no doors here and the walls were hewn half out of solid stone and half man made meaning they had descended below the surface of the rocks. The conditions became further dilapidated the further they travelled and the temperature dropped seemingly with each footstep.

They came across a guard who was strolling towards them having just entered through the bolt door, this one controlled from below. Conor was the first to notice him and quickly dropped Isabella's hand which he'd taken up earlier. He vaguely recognised him from before; he was of high ranking in the guards and therefore would prove very useful to them as others wouldn't question his judgement. Conor was fairly certain that he wouldn't recognise him back as well.

"You sir!" He called. The guard's head snapped up and was about to turn and shout of intruders when Conor cut across him. "We have business here." He said calmly with an air of authority. "Jaggers let us through." He regurgitated the man's name from before.

"What business be this?"

"Important business. A sheep's business." Conor winked slyly. "Business that could earn you a pretty penny, if you should be so kind to act as a guide for us. We do not know our way round I'm afraid." _Two of us do not know their way around. _

"How valuable would this pretty penny be worth?" asked the guard carefully. Every man had his price. George McDoul (the guard) regarded Conor after he'd told him the amount, eyes flashing. Every man had his price, and this was a much greater than he'd anticipated. "A sheep's business you say? And could this sheep's business possibly help old George in the future at all?"

"But of course good sir, we have many a plan and we should need someone with the obvious brains that you harbour to make them work. You will be benefited naturally." Flattery always helped.

"And how should old George know that yous is genuine? How should old George knows that yous is not impostors?" Isabella refrained from flinching at the man's bad grammar.

Conor treated the man to a flash of his battering ram tattoo whilst keeping his body at such an angle that his companions would not be able to see. It was remarkable how far a little bit of ink could get a person. 'Old George' nodded.

"Follow me. Where is it you need to see?" Asked McDoul as he pivoted to take them through the way he had just come.

"The pipe." Answered Conor immediately and emotionlessly, remembering the places his father and Isabella had asked to visit.

"That should be hard to do with so many people around, take a lot of work on my part that would." He held out his hand and Conor placed his in it, transferring the coin to the guard. "But not unachievable." George dropped the coin into his own pocket where it clanged against the keys he kept there. Both Declan and Isabella were baffled by this talking of sheep and pipes and Conor's action with his arm. Conor all but ignored them again as he followed behind the corrupted McDoul who was calling out to the man below the door to open it.

The door opened onto a long hallway of cells. It was not the same row that Conor had stayed on but it was so alike that Conor almost expected their guide to turn on him at any moment and throw him inside the nearest one. The change from before the doorway to after the doorway was beyond measure. It had been getting further rundown the further they went but this was like stepping into another building entirely. This was the Little Saltee Conor remembered.

The walls were carved out of solid rock now, with wooden supports holding them up. Many of the supports were on the verge of collapse or collapsed already. Oil lights cast dim glows around the tunnel casting shadows on the rocks that looked about to cave in. The tunnel floor sloped towards the middle to create a little stream of water and blood and sweat and many things worse. The stench was intolerable; Isabella had to control her retching sounds as the reek filled her nose.

Isabella peered around at the decaying passage way, it was unthinkable to her that a place as decrepit and ghastly as this could exist on her islands.

Conor walked beside their guide up front who was blathering about his importance and treating him to nuggets of information. They were halfway down the row of cells when Declan and Isabella were treated to a common Little Saltee sight which did not seem to affect Conor or McDoul at all. A prisoner was being taken from his cell to no doubt work the pipe. He was scruffy, of about average height and on the verge of emaciation; the cuffs were synched tight around his wrists and the poor man hissed in pain, for this the guard clipped him upside the head and gave a sharp painful dig in the middle of his back to get him moving.

Conor recognised this guard, Hutcherson, his name was. He was notoriously harsh towards the inmates and Conor had been treated to his manhandling on more than one occasion. A feeling inside Conor's body materialized automatically at the sound of the cell door opening. It was a smooth almost musical note that haunted his nightmares. The feeling was one of joy, a bittersweet joy of being released from his cramped captivity but with the knowledge that there was something much more sinister on the other side and he would be back in the small enclosure after only a few hours. He repressed it internally. _It doesn't apply to you anymore. _

Declan was appalled by the corruption already in the guards he'd seen so far. They were so cruel, beating the prisoners, accepting bribes and not even questioning intruders! These were not men any more and they were certainly not the respectable authorities of peace they should have been. Yes these people were criminals, but they were still human beings. Isabella was about to cry out for the poor man ahead's harassment as almost every step he took was met with a blow of some sort. Conor looked over his shoulder, expecting this and made quick silencing motions.

"Looks like the place is all about to cave-in don't it?" Said McDoul, turning round to meet _Will's_ wide-eyed gaze. "Well it ain't. It's been like this for as long as I can remember and probably much longer then that too."

Both Declan and Isabella had been growing steadily more suspicious of Conor's actions although Declan's was over shadowed by a small amount of pride. Usually it would be Declan who would take control of a situation like this. He would be the one commanding the others and asking questions and looking authoritative but is this situation – that he had almost no idea how to handle – Conor took the reigns. He walked with purpose in his step and talked in such a different way to how he usually did, he was in control.

The door at the end of the cell block was opened and all six of them bundled through. Conor was fairly certain of their positioning; using both his own sense of direction and the information McDoul had given him. He figured they were in wing A of the prison used for the 'sane' criminals. There were three wings to this block, A, B and C, which – like almost every other passage way – lead eventually to the central mining shaft. The pipe. The mad wing, in which Conor had stayed, he was fairly certain was to the left of this one.

They carried on along another few passage ways; all getting in a steadily worse state of disrepair the further they went. After passing through another two of the strong doorways inside the crumbling walls, they emerged out into an open area with a huge square hole in the middle where the rock had been excavated and some ladders thrown down to the mine below. There were swabs of colour on the walls which suggested that this place had once been used to store food before. Conor could not contain this shudder that rippled through his shoulders.

Bell peels like laughter resonated up through the gap as the harsh waves slapped against the bell's surface below. Conor could feel great empathy for those unfortunate souls inside but no sympathy and he hated himself for it. Sympathy got you no where on Little Saltee and he found that now he wanted to feel sympathy…he couldn't.

More empathy was felt as the inmate who's journey down to the pipe they'd followed was forced down the ladder by Hutcherson stamping on his bony fingers roughly were they gripped the top rung. "Get yourself down there sharpish, whelp. You _salt._" Hutcherson spat at him and it landed on the man's shoulder. He didn't brush it away.

Declan was about to step forwards and reprimand the sadistic monstrosity but Conor placed a hand against his chest with a stern look when he tried to pass. It was a reminding look: _you don't have the same power here as you usually do. _

"We've got another one coming down Pikey." Hutcherson shouted down into the hole as the prisoner's head disappeared out of their sight. Pike. Conor would have trouble getting past Pike without being recognised and there was no telling what would happen if Billtoe was down there. _This is crazy!_ Thought Conor. _Damn Linus. We could be beaten black and blue for our trickery if they found out we were impostors. Isabella too. What am I doing here?!!!_

"Let me go down first then follow behind whilst I sort the others out." Said McDoul as he perched at the top of the ladder. "This must be rich business you intend on settling." He held his hand out again. This man may have been an obnoxious bore but he had a keen eye for coins. George pocketed it like before then descended.

They could not see what was going on down there and the words weren't clear but there seemed to be a scuffle of some sort going on. "Just let 'em down!" was roared by McDoul down below. George looked up towards Conor from the bottom of the ladder where Conor was poised at the top. Conor descended uneasily, hiding his face as much as possible as Isabella followed behind and then Declan.

There was a warden holding a bloody nose beside the ladder that McDoul must had struck in the scuffle. Things seemed to have tightened – not only were the guards turning on prisoners, they were turning on each other too. There were some new faces amongst the guards and even more new weapons. More of them were carrying whips and smaller knives rather than pistols, Conor saw three with knuckle dusters.

Waves lapped at the edges of the freezing pool and the clangs of the great orange blob below the surface were louder down here. "Is that a...diving bell?" _Will_ whispered from behind. McDoul heard and was the first to answer.

"Old Flora? Why yes she is. She went into retirement whilst Old King Nick was on the throne but she was brought back a few years ago. Boosted profits has our girl!" His smile was almost fond as he peered into the dark depths. Conor had the greatest urge to kick him in the buttocks with the sole of his shoe, to tumble him into the freezing sea.

A few of the guards were looking at the intruders curiously but most paid no more notice than they would to a prisoner's wellbeing. _Standards have really slipped._ Thought Conor accompanied by a similar thought from his father. A few of the prisoners had looked around curiously but turned back to work when they were shouted at by their overseers.

Isabella felt close to terrified here. Her small stature was surely exaggerated in this crowed space filled with these hardened brutes. If it weren't for the uniforms and weapons, it would have been difficult to tell the prisoners and the guards apart. Some of the prisoner's expressions were so desolate and hopeless, others were twisted in rage and others were vacant, just vacant. She saw a man with a tattered stub as his left arm and a much scarred but otherwise intact right arm among them, there was another man with one leg and a crudely fashioned wooden stump for the other. Those were the residents of the mad wing.

One of the convicts who'd continued to look a them (at Conor) closely was a huge thug named Malarkey, Otto Malarkey. He watched Conor closely. _It couldn't be…_ Conor purposefully ignored Malarkey's inquisitive gaze and scratched the back of his head agitatedly. Malarkey's eyes widened and a broad grin spread across his face, displaying the tobacco yellow stained grimace that Conor remembered him for so well. He opened his mouth to shout 'Soldier boy!' at his friend who made rapid silencing motions. Malarkey's heavy brow dropped in confusion then he noticed the two other men who accompanied Mr Finn, one could have been no older than a boy he was so small, either that or he had stunted growth. Malarkey cocked his head to the side curiously.

The guard who'd been supervising the head ram and a few other's work shouted for him to get back to work. Otto took no notice and continued to watch Conor. The guard shouted again but to no avail and got a few of the stronger other guards to grab Malarkey's arms as he brought out his whip. Otto finally noticed and roared in an animalistic fashion as he swatted at his restrainers.

Conor tensed. He couldn't let his friend take the beating for his presence.

Conor leapt forwards to catch the man's hand before he could flick out the stretch of knotted rope. The tensed Malarkey peered over his shoulder questioningly, no doubt wondering why he had not been struck yet. "I can't let you do that." Said Conor lowly. Unfortunately for Conor however, the guard recognised him.

"Hey, I know you! Oi, everyone, it's F-" Conor panicked. The man's words were cut off by Conor's fist connecting with the side of his face. Grant's (The guard's) eyes crossed lazily before his body slumped to the floor. This action was met with outcry. Some of the wardens who hadn't liked Grant particularly just turned the other way an carried on chewing their tobacco plugs whilst others leapt forwards at Conor.

Declan spun quickly in front of his eldest son, pulling out the short sword he'd concealed in his jacket breast to point at the advancing guards. Conor pulled out the short sword he'd kept strapped to his shin and Isabella retrieved the revolver she'd been carrying from her trouser waistband. A dozen or so guards surrounded them, all with weapons of their own. Malarkey grinned his contorted smile and almost casually batted away the two that had been restraining him, one of whom landed thrashing in the freezing water. Malarkey joined Conor's side, patted him on the shoulder then raised his impressive fists, as much of a weapons as Conor's or Declan's or Isabella's.

All Conor could feel was regret. Regret was a feeling that had visited Conor many times over the past few years: why didn't he do this? Why didn't he do that? Why didn't he protest so much to returning here? Why didn't he tell his family the truth in the first place? Why didn't he come back to his family earlier? _Why did he have to go visit the king's tower? _This visit to the prison could kill them all, the Saltees would be left without a ruler and there is no telling what should happen then. This was far too dangerous. This was ludicrous.

"We do not mean harm." Stated Declan quietly. "We do not wish to fight you."

One of the guards was growing frustrated at the waiting and launched himself at Conor. Conor caught the attacker easily; with two jabs the guard was disarmed with a blade against his neck, and a fistful of his hair in Conor's hand. A sizeable number of the guards swallowed heavily and re-thought their decision, the incomers may be heavily outnumbered but they could fend for themselves by the looks of things. _Well, maybe not the little one._ "Return back to your posts and we shall leave peacefully, we shall not return." Declan said in that same, quiet, confident voice. Conor dropped – quite literally – the man he was holding who scuttled backwards upon release.

The prisoners were starting to crowd round as well and slowly the guards trickled away to sort and reprimand those who had dared move from their stations but all kept their eyes warily on the trio. No guard dared step forward and claim Malarkey, he was highly respected and feared by both the prisoners and guards alike when not in chains. A few prisoners stayed behind curiously, all of them were rams. Declan was amazed at the men's stupidity. Were these wardens genuinely that careless or just downright dim?! Pardoning them so quickly, he'd have them all dismissed for such things! He suddenly felt very proud of his own Sharpshooters.

"It's Finn!" exclaimed the closest ram, a man Conor recognised and knew closely. He was as gruesome and fearsome as the rest but with fewer teeth.

"Aye! 'Tis soldier boy!" There were similar declarations from the crowded battering rams and other prisoners too as they turned to look. Conor attempted desperately to deny their insistencies. Then sighed as a show of consensus to the fact that there was no use in contradicting them anymore. He'd been found out. Surprisingly none of the guards reacted to this information, either they had not heard (unlikely in the cramped conditions), did not know of him or had simply forgotten – they saw so many prisoners come and go through here.

Conor turned to Otto at his left. "I am sorry for what has happened here, I fear that you shall be punished greatly for our actions today… Believe me it was not my intention to return." He hissed the last part too quietly for his companions to hear.

"Fear not, Soldier Boy. I shall withhold." He said loudly then whispered for Conor's ears only. "I am indebted to you, Conor Finn, it is because of you that I leave within the month. You kept up your end of the deal, Zeb had been in touch, he has bribed my way out."

"I am pleased for you my friend. The hair looks magnificent but the way." He smiled but it wasn't his usual, friendly smile it was the smile that had carried him through Little Saltee: hard with a strong sneer of mockery.

"Thank you. And I see that you took my advice as well, the beard looks better shorter."

They smiled at each other and shook hands in the true Battering Ram fashion by clasping each others wrists rather than hands. "Remember Conor, you are one of us, if you ever have difficulties, the brotherhood will help." Conor nodded then noticed the man's knuckles.

"Your knuckles are raw." Conor pointed out. "I thought we agreed, no more beatings."

"Ahh yes, but I think even you should understand this one: Billtoe!"

"Billtoe?! What has brought this about?"

"You do not know?" asked Otto and at Conor's vacant expression continued. "Bonvilain got angry when he found out you escaped, he took the boy that was masquerading in your place, put him in charge and threw Billtoe in the cell instead. The new guy's crazy! Gone mad with the power he has, the beatings have increased…and you know how bad they were before."

Conor looked troubled at this new information. "My companions do not know of my endeavours here and I would be grateful if it stayed that way." He whispered lastly and then pulled away, fearing his father and _William_ would be getting suspicious. Malarkey nodded then moved to Conor's father (though he did not know this connection between the two) to shake his hand.

Declan took the man's hand, wary of the tattoo across his knuckles but not showing it. The guards had done good work on clearing away the rest of the prisoners, the bustling of the pipe continued as if nothing had happened. Profit was the true leader of Little Saltee with production closely in second; nothing would interrupt the making of either.

"This is an old acquaintance of mine," introduced Conor, "Declan, meet Otto Malarkey."

"It's a pleasure." Said Declan curtly whilst spying the man's impressive tattoos including the pricelist on his vast chest where his shirt hung open.

Otto then offered his hand to the boy who took it rather effeminately. "Otto, this is William." Conor introduced them both as well.

"Do you know if that man is close, the one they call Numbers? I wish to thank him for something." Malarkey gave Conor a inquiring look but knew not to push the question; Finn was never one to give information freely. Thanking Numbers was something that Conor had felt the need to do before, if it hadn't been for the simpleminded little person then Conor's plan would never have had chance to work.

"You'd have hard work communicating usually, but I'm afraid it has become more difficult."

Conor narrowed his eyes, not comprehending what the other man was telling him. "He's been released." Malarkey explained.

Declan, not quite understanding this term, was confused a the men's strict expressions. "Lucky him." He said lightly, trying – and failing – to lighten the mood.

Conor only nodded.

A loud horn blared in the distance signalling the switchover of bell duties. A heavy looking guy with impressive muscles hauled himself up from the waves, dripping wet with bleeding fingertips. Conor recognised him, he was huge but harmless, a resident of the mad wing, with his tongue always seeming to protrude from his mouth, he had many troubles speaking and often acted most queerly.

A sopping dishevelled looking pirate reject emerged spurting water after the 'turf head'. Billtoe was on hands and knees on the roughly cut floor, he had a painful looking black eye and an offset nose and even less teeth than the few he'd owned before. He was retching water. A sound that could only be described as a growl swelled in Conor's chest. Before he could control himself, he was over there with the throat of the man who'd terrorised his life for two years in his hand. The watching Declan and Isabella were forgotten in his rage.

Arthur Billtoe's eyes bulged at the sight of Conor, almost a full head taller than him now. Declan was about to cry out at his eldest son who was slowly choking the man to death when he caught Isabella's horrified eyes and stopped himself. The wise Declan Broekhart did not know how to handle this situation.

Billtoe tried to speak but his throat was too constricted, he wheezed breaths, going slowly redder in the face with each passing second. Conor studied the ruined man before him. He was breaking; you could see it in his eyes, that cloudy, defeated look as his fingers scrabbled tiredly at Conor's hand.

The Broekhart inside him could almost feel sorry for this once authoritative figure; but callous, ruthless Mr Finn wanted to laugh in the man's face. The end result was a derisive sneer and raise of one eyebrow, he tightened his hand making Billtoe's eyes widen further before letting go. Arthur stumbled backwards, clasping his raw throat and almost tumbling into the water again.

Conor turned to rejoin his father and Isabella then changed his mind, turned back and punched Billtoe square in the gut. The pathetic man's body buckled to hands and knees retching again. Conor walked back to his companions with a merciless air around him. He paused when he reached Malarkey. "Make sure you don't do the job too quickly." He said quietly with a wicked grin.

Otto did a mock salute. "Aye, aye! Captain!" Declan's head whipped round before he caught himself. The two Battering Rams gripped each other's wrists again, patted each other on the shoulder, then parted.

Conor turned to his father and Isabella with a stony expression. "I think we should leave." He said tightly.

McDoul was suddenly at their sides with the look of a pesky, pleased-with-himself golden retriever. "Follow me gentleman." He said cheerily despite the sombre atmosphere throughout the whole prison.

The journey back up through the maze of tunnels and passageways was silent and tense though George seemed unaffected with the way he chattered on incessantly to his little unresponsive troop. _How could one man be quite so dull?_ Wondered Isabella.

There weren't words to express how Conor was feeling right now…regretful, malignant, ashamed, pitying… repentant… bitter… vindictive… fretful… anxious… uneasy… none seemed to quite fit. The mix of the different personalities inside of him were messing with his head. Switching constantly from Broekhart to Finn at the click of a finger was starting to take its toll. A third persona was beginning to flourish inside of him, this one was simpler than the others, it didn't have memories, it didn't have feelings, it didn't think…it was numb. And it was this numbness that Conor leant towards now.

The corridors looked to be repairing themselves the further they ascended as the conditions grew better and better though the view didn't change much.

The three were lead a different route out than the way they'd taken in. The temperature rose as steadily as it had decreased when they entered. The door to the outside world had a thick glass pane in it that showed only the grey tossing seas and storm-brewing skies. It looked like heaven compared to in here.

The muted three were about to walk through the just opened door when McDoul who'd finally shut up after sensing the tension that rolled off everyone in waves almost as strong as those outside. He raised a stubby little finger and gingerly tapped Conor on the shoulder. Conor turned to look at the insufferable little man who umm-ed and ahh-ed in front of him.

"About that business sir…well, what do you plan on doing? I assume it is Malarkey that you wish to establish the link with and I…" Old George carried on in such a fashion as Conor stood there looking blankly at him. Before the nauseating buffoon could continue, Conor raised his fist and punched him square in the nose then followed his father and sweetheart outside leaving the befuddled looking McDoul inside clutching his bleeding nose. _Some people…_

**A/N: Okay, please tell me what you think about this chapter, I'm not sure if I really like it or not…well, I do like it, but I'm not sure how you guys will react to it and I'm not sure if it's a little unrealistic…who am I kidding? It's very unrealistic. Tell me what you think anyways!**

**I would like to inform you that this chapter is also the longest out of all of the chapters I have ever written here on fanfiction, about twice the length actually. I feel so proud of myself!**


	7. Chapter 7: Dignified Silence

**A/N: So guys, this is actually the final chapter of this story line! I am going to do an epilogue too, so I don't know if this technically classes as the ending…hmmm… Without meaning to sound too sentimental: thank you to every body who has ever read or reviewed this story and thank you in particular to **_**reading-rider **_**and **_**FrenchFan **_**who's reviews have always kept me smiling. xx **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. **

**What has happened so far: **Conor and Bonvilain fought and he explained to his family where he's been for the last few years but lied thinking they couldn't handle the truth. Isabella and Conor kissed in an incredibly cheesy fashion and Isabella admitted that she knew he was lying. At breakfast Catherine starts getting suspicious about the changes in Conor, Linus comes to visit and Declan and his merry men go off in search of Bonvilain's mercenaries while Conor lays low. Conor gets inspiration for a new part of the glider and disappears off to the tower to go build it. He and Isabella then go flying together. Linus '_convinces_' Conor to go with Declan and Isabella to visit Little Saltee where Conor gets recognised and general mayhem occurs. Declan and Isabella know something is up.

**Song Suggestion: **False Pretence by Red Jumpsuit Apparatus**  
Chapter 7: **Dignified Silence**  
Third Person POV**

The journey back to Greater Saltee was a silent one. A storm brewed over head, painting the sky and the water an ominous dark grey. The huge rocks of the island ahead jutted out treacherously from the tossing waves, appearing more jagged than usual with the harsh weather.

Declan and Isabella sat together on the seating at the back of the little steam boat, neither of them spoke. Conor sat at the very front of the craft, staring out over the tumbling sea, not brushing away the salt spray that crashed over the bow and landed on his face. Even the usually jolly Captain kept quiet for once.

Isabella sat next to the man who had been by her side everyday since her father had died. There was a small gap between their hips on the little wooden bench that might as well have been a chasm. It said more than any words could. She hugged her knees to her chest both for warmth and comfort. Everything was falling apart. There were huge wedges driven between them all; the once stable, happy unit was disintegrating before their eyes. She watched the back of Conor's blond head forlornly; he was the most separated from them – literally and figuratively.

Conor felt nothing as he stared, eyes glazed over, at the forming tempest. The waves were powerful and beautiful as they smashed against the hull of the boat, rocking it precariously. All four onboard were used to the churning Saltee waters so stayed mostly unaffected by the swell. Even though Conor had been expecting the moment when they would find out and ask the truth of him for the past three weeks, he still had no idea what to say or how to start. Telling them the truth was unquestionable, but how?

How was he supposed to tell his mother and father and Isabella what he had been through?

He found himself looking back and thinking less of his father. Declan had always been a much respected figure on the Saltee Islands, he inspired loyalty in his men and made them _want _to work hard for him. Declan had had his life made. There was no struggle involved, he had lived on the Saltees all his life and so had all of his family before him. The young Declan Broekhart had joined the Wall guard and discovered his talent for shooting; over the years he worked his way up to the top where he stayed. It was easy for him, there had never been a prolonged attack against the islands, he had never had to fight a war, he had a loving wife and family and friends who would support him.

Conor found himself wondering how his father _didn't _recognise him in the holding cell those three long years ago. Surely, his father had seen him nearly every single day of his life, if not every day. This man _knew _what his son looked like! If he had recognised Conor then none of them would ever have been caused so much grief.

_The mind sees what it is supposed to see, I suppose. _

--

"Talk." Commanded Declan.

They were at the Broekhart home now. Conor sat slumped moodily in his chair on one side of the large kitchen table with Isabella and Catherine at the other. Declan stood at the head, looming forwards with both hands gripping the chair he was standing behind.

Conor held his tongue and stared insolently over to the wall opposite from the other three. This had continued for the last twenty minutes and Declan was growing steadily more frustrated, his jet black hair drooped onto his forehead.

His teeth ground together at his son's sheer rudeness. The old Conor would never have acted like this. The old Conor would never have lied to them. He hadn't believed Catherine at first when she tried to talk to him about her suspicions and he felt bad for that now. His guilt and joy at having his son back had clouded his vision. It was evident now that Conor had changed lots, more than Isabella and Catherine suspected too.

Declan's hands gripped the chair roughly; he tore it away from the table where it crashed to the floor more forcefully than he'd intended. Conor didn't even flinch.

"Where have you been? What have you been doing? Why did the guards only let us through when you asked? What did you tell them to get us in?" And so the interrogation continued. "How did all those inmates know who you are? Have you been working with them?" He was getting right in Conor's face now, he leaned over the table towards him but Conor just stared at the wall keeping still. You work out a plan in these situations. You work out a plan and you stick to it. Otherwise, you keep silent. The only problem is coming up with that plan…

"What were you saying to that _Malarkey_? Were you planning something? Have you been smuggling things in and out? Acting as a go between with the guards? It that how the prisoners knew you, huh? How did you really meet Linus? Did you lie to us about that too? How could you do this to us, to Isabella, to your family? Why would you lie to us like this?!"

Conor's right hand balled into a fist where it rested on the table and his left against his thigh. His head snapped to glare at his father and suddenly he was on his feet. "I am not a child anymore father!" He roared. It was out of order to shout at the people who had raised him like this, and in front of the queen too. Unfortunately for Conor his rage clouded his vision, as it did for his father.

"You are but seventeen! You will respect me as long as you live under this roof!!" Bellowed back Declan, they were getting closer together now.

"As Finn I have been more than twenty! I have lived independently for the past year! …And as for your respect – you have your other son for that!" It was a low blow and Conor knew it. He would regret his words later but now he could only spill the true feelings he had about the little boy who had pushed him aside as a replacement. He stood, fists trembling, nostrils flared with a hard face before flopping backwards onto his chair, face turned away. The resentment towards his father that had grown over his time away re-kindled in him stomach.

Declan stumbled back as if physically struck. This was not the young boy who had sat on his knees and listened to bedtime stories before falling asleep against his fathers chest. This was not the boy who had spent hours talking excitedly to him about a new design he and Victor had created while his parents nodded and smiled encouragingly but not understandingly. This was not the polite, geeky, charming teen with a quick smile, witty edge and light sense of humour. Declan barely recognised him anymore.

Catherine stepped forwards now, as much as she loved her husband, he wasn't handling this situation terribly well. She stood in front of her son with a sad smile. "You are still our son too Conor." She all but whispered. Conor had to hold in his condescending – and very rude – scoff.

The creak of the door had all of their heads snapping up. Linus entered slowly, the tinted glasses that Conor had fashioned for him whilst they were at the tower were perched lightly across the bridge of his distinguished nose. Isabella was about to stand and help when he stopped her with a motion of the hand. "It is quite alright." He reassured her. He listened carefully for their breathing over the howling wind outside. He recognised Conor's laboured, familiar breaths immediately and stumbled his way over, reaching out blindly with his long spidery fingers till they graced his friends shoulder.

Conor was frozen in the chair; Linus squeezed his shoulder in comfort. "It's time Conor. There's no use resisting anymore." Conor, being stubborn as a mule scowled, was everyone here against him? "Locking away different parts of yourself won't work here Conor, this isn't like before, you can't just forget about it." Conor remained silent. "Switching characters as you have been doesn't work either; you can't be two people at once. You have to choose. Now."

Conor's hands balled into fists again. As much as he hated to admit it, what Linus was saying was true. He just didn't know how to start, how do you say these things? Linus gave his shoulder another comforting squeeze before fumbling for a chair and sitting himself.

"…I lied." Conor blurted, forcing the words from his lips with some difficulty. "W-when Bonvilain threw me in the cell he told me that you believed that I had killed the king and that he was covering it up to keep the family dignity. After our meeting I genuinely believed that you hated me for what I was said to have done. I didn't know that Bonvilain had told you that I had died.

"I lied when I said that I escaped when they were moving me. They managed it." He stayed silent, shaking not just because of his anger now but keeping in place a bored expression. The words were on his tongue but they wouldn't seem to form out loud. He gaped at the air like a fish, mouth opening and closing wordlessly. Cracks were forming in the hard outer shell that had been protecting him ever since all this mess started.

Declan's eyes widened. "Little Saltee." He moaned as a loud thunder clap boomed outside. Everyone jumped. It was so obvious now, how they hadn't realised with the oh so evident truth just sitting in front of them was really quite astounding.

"They took me over. That's how I knew Billtoe, he was one of the guards who _escorted _me, it's also how I knew about the algae and the branding." Conor pulled back the sleeve of his leather jacket that he had previously donned to show the cursive 'S' scarlet against his left palm. Both Isabella and Catherine flinched, Declan sat on his righted chair with his head in his hands.

"That was also how I met Linus; we were cell mates until he was released just two days after I arrived. Linus was the one who taught me how to survive in there, they try to break you, broken prisoners create less of a fuss. Bonvilain took no chances with me, I was given the new name of Finn and they put me I the mad-wing; to them I was a soldier dismissed from duty for smuggling, a first class lunatic. Even if I had tried to tell anyone, they wouldn't have believed me."

Linus joined in here. "I worked for the King, we worked together in America and I agreed to act as a spy for him inside the prison, the night he was killed I was supposed to relay my most recent news for him actually. A turf-headed, blind spy, who would have suspected me? Fortunately, Nick had sent my official release forms before he died so I managed to get out."

"I wasn't to know that this was an official discharge." Said Conor. "I just knew I no longer had a cell mate."

"Is that what were you talking about before, releasing that Numbers or something?" Asked Isabella. Declan looked up curiously at this too.

Conor's face formed into the same controlled boredom, he sighed. "Release: the most expeditious way to prevent over crowding." Conor repeated the words Linus had once said to him with a grim smile. Isabella looked confused. "Murder." He clarified. "I thought that they had killed Linus, not that the release was genuine. Bonvilain also planned to have me killed. You saw the pricelist on Malarkey's chest? He was paid three pounds to kill me. We were set to work the diving bell together, _Flora_ was reintroduced the day I was set to work, Malarkey planned to spread out the beatings for each day until the job was over."

Declan tried to cut in but Linus made quietening motions, seeming to look straight at him which was a little unnerving.

Conor continued unaffected. "I fought Otto and took his word not to kill me. We became friends over the next two years I was inside. There was a small collection of the London-Irish gang the Battering Rams inside the prison, Otto was the head of the group and I took the ink." He pulled his arm out of the jacket and then rolled his sleeve up to show the tattoo on his left upper arm.

Isabella made the connection quickest. "Rams…a sheep's business."

"I worked myself up until I became the top ram. From there I could use my influence over the guards; I proposed the salsa garden idea to Billtoe who promptly told it as his own. It would provide benefits for the prisoners meals but it also gave us a chance to hide the diamonds we smuggled out. By the end of my second year, we had seven bags."

Declan shook his head, not quite able to comprehend everything that his son was talking about. _Prison? Paid Beatings? Gangs and smuggling?_ It was too much.

"I planned to escape, I came up with the idea for the coronation balloons, they were to be the distraction. I bribed myself some silk sheets and created a parachute from them. The plan went wrong as I tried to escape; they set the balloons off too quickly and there were too many people around. Lunacy, absolute lunacy! Exploding hydrogen powered fireworks so close to those people!

"I had to take the last balloon and I'd had to disguise myself as a butcher to get by." Three inquisitive glances where thrown his way. "Don't ask. I caught myself on the last balloon, dislocating my shoulder as it pulled away so I couldn't release myself. I only separated myself when the balloon exploded, that however burnt a hole in my parachute. I was at a too low altitude anyway. I crashed into Queen Victoria's yacht."

Declan whispered to himself: "Remarkable." Conor came out of his memory induced daze to look at his father. "The last balloon you say?"

"Yes, why?" asked Conor.

"That was the balloon I took down. Everybody said it was an impossible shot but I took it anyway. That was my shot." All were lost in a moment in the irony of the situation. Linus raised a hand, fumbling for a second before placing it upon Conor's shoulder and giving it a proud squeeze. Declan, Catherine and Isabella were staring at Conor, how he told the horrific, true events so plainly. _He's been through so much…_

"What happened after you crashed into the yacht?" Asked Catherine kindly.

"The pile of lifejackets on board broke my fall," Conor restarted, "I travelled aboard the ship to London where I searched for Zeb Malarkey – Otto's brother – I told him of my escape and the diamonds and he offered me a position on the London docks, taking control of the Battering Rams there. I declined and travelled back to Ireland, I've been staying at Victor's tower at Forlorn Point for about a year now.

"I was in Kilmore Quay one day when I heard Linus' music playing, I couldn't believe that it was actually him of course, I though him dead. He came to live with me once we'd reintroduced ourselves. I designed the glider and plans for the aeroplane; I used the steam fans on the roof of the tower as my launcher much like when Isabella and I went up together. I would fly over to Little Saltee and collect the hidden diamonds. Billtoe and the other guard Pike saw me and that is how the 'French Airman' charade started.

"I took my own share of the diamonds and sent the rest off to Zeb in London. Otto was telling me earlier that Zeb had bribed his release; he is to be out within the month. I planned to set up a new life for myself in America with the small fortune from the diamonds. Then Bonvilain's dinner happened."

Conor stopped. His eyes were fixed on his fingernail as it followed the grain in the wood of the kitchen table. An annoyed, dark expression now coated his handsome features. They'd made him finally spill the beans. Stubborn irritation built inside him, he would have told them the truth eventually but not like this, under these circumstances after today. They'd forced him to tell the secret before he was ready. He shrugged Linus' hand off where it rested on his shoulder – none of today's events would have occurred if Linus hadn't butted in.

He could feel all their gazes on him but he didn't want it. They stared admiringly but he knew he didn't deserve it. Suddenly, he couldn't stand being in the same room as them, the sound of all their breathing, the rustle of clothes as they shifted in their seats, the friction of hands rubbing together as they fidgeted. He was drowning in the air that had once been so vital to him, it felt so thick and pressing and enclosing. And the sound of their breathing as they drew in the same poisoned air that was tainted with the aftermath of his harrowing tale.

So much noise…

He craved for silence. He wanted to scream at them all to just…shut up! But he couldn't because they wouldn't know what he meant. He wanted shout at them to stop looking at him like that and to stop pitying him and to just stop _caring!_ Somehow it was much easier when he still believed that they hated him. It was simpler. You go to America, you start afresh, you forget about your old life. You let go of the past. Don't misunderstand, he loved his family greatly but for some incomprehensible reason, everything had grown so complicated since his return!

He resented them on one level, they had brought him back and tied him to them forever; he would never be going to America and making a better life for himself. And he knew that come morning, all his anger will have dissipated and instead he would be angry at himself for ever having such treacherous thoughts but now they consumed his mind. _It wasn't their fault,_ he tried to convince himself, _it was Bonvilain's. _

The noise was becoming too much for him. The hand that had been following the grove in the table pressed harder into the wood with his tension. He needed to get out of there, he needed to leave. His hand stopped and clenched into a fist. It took him a few tries to get his legs to work and then Conor stood. Without meeting anybody's gaze, he strode towards the door.

His usually graceful steps abandoned him, making his walk clumsily like a newborn foal. His hand missed the knob the first time he reached for it and the door clipped him on the shoulder as it swung shut. Nothing ever cooperated the way it should when you want it to.

By the time Conor had made it to his room his breathing was laboured and his eyes stung with tears that would have provided release if they would _just fall!_ His back slid down the wood of the closed door, knees bunched up to his chest. So stupid! He reprimanded himself, clutching at his hair with tight painful fists.

The storm raged in full swing outside. The wind howled in rage, ripping at the buildings with strong invisible fingers. Thunder claps followed one another almost seamlessly till it felt like the sound was shaking the housing in its foundations. Lightening forks lit up the darkened sky, reflecting off the windows as the incensed waves tore furiously at the island's boundaries, only encouraged by the haunting wind.

Conor sighed tiredly, looking away from the window and letting his long legs stretch out in front and leaning his head backwards till it collided with the door, his hands flopped limply to his sides.

"So stupid…"

**A/N: So that is the official end of the storyline! Hold out for the epilogue which should be appearing sometime soon. Thank you again to all those who have ever reviewed any of my stories ever – you guys are the ones that keep me writing.**

**Never make me say anything so soppy again. **

**Over dudes. **


	8. Epilogue

**Epilogue: **The Soldier's Return**  
Third Person POV**

To say the theatre was packed would be an understatement. Isabella had wanted them to sit in a private booth along the side but Conor had insisted on their current seats: at the centre of the front row of the balcony, in prime view of the stage. Conor liked the bustle of all the people around him, the anonymity of being just another face in the crowd was comforting.

It had been under Isabella's persuasion that the opening night of Linus' opera was advertised so heavily both on the mainland and the islands. As a result almost the entire population of the Saltees were sitting in the room with them. The whole Broekhart family was present including little Sean (now six years old) squirming in his seat and tugging at the starched collar of his dress shirt.

Conor and Isabella were holding hands over the arm rest and, as he liked to do, Conor was twiddling and twisting the Saltee diamond wedding ring that adorned his wife's finger. Isabella was smiling at her prince, her other hand resting over her possibly-pregnant abdomen.

The royal wedding had become the biggest event of at least the past two decades and the increased wealth generated from the new diamond market and the lack of corruption in the mine made sure the celebrations were impressive. The news of a pregnancy would surely lead to yet more partying.

After returning from two years study at Glasgow University, Conor had lived in the tower at Forlorn Point for almost half a year before moving into the palace with Isabella for their marriage. This arrangement had given him the space away from his parents both parties needed. His relationship with his parents was once again strong and loving, it was different to before, not as close but that suited all just fine.

The conscious choice to leave for Glasgow, as well as living on his own whilst his parents new of his whereabouts gave Conor a type of independence different to previously. The letters they used to communicate through allowed Conor to reconnect with his parents and for his parents to accept this son's changes without them being crowded by each other.

The beautiful city had indeed welcomed the scientist and musician into its bosom, making the two years a very enjoyable experience. Conor would never admit this to Isabella or his parents, even Linus did not know that whilst away he had attempted courting two young Scottish ladies. Both were very lovely: pretty, intelligent, charming and would one day make perfect wives to two very lucky men. But something just wasn't…right. It was after the second failed relationship attempt that Conor realised what had been missing, quite simply they weren't Isabella. This revelation had come as a relief to him, an answer to his mind's torturous questioning on what he wanted. So, with his head buzzing full of information, Conor returned to the Saltee Islands after completing his studies and within two weeks he had bought a ring and proposed to his queen.

Conor still owned the laboratory to use for his experiments and the occasional day when he felt the need to escape from island life a little. He'd been spending more time than usual there 'playing with his toys' as Isabella put it, ready for the aeroplane convention in America which he was leaving for next month.

Conor peered over the railings into the stalls below out of curiosity. His eyes followed the rows, picking out inhabitants of the islands easily, he paused at the two massive figures squeezed into too small seats, turned away from each other to converse with the girls sitting at their sides. As if feeling his gaze, Zeb Malarkey looked up, smirked and nudged his brother. Conor gave the pair a mock salute and a rough grin which they returned in perfect synchronisation that didn't break as they shifted to face the front and then their dates.

Conor was inexplicably touched by their attendance to the event although with the extent of the advertising he shouldn't have been too surprised they'd heard of it. Isabella, who had watched the exchange, squeezed a pulse into her husbands hand; they smiled at each other as he squeezed back and winked.

The new electric lighting in the theatre was dim but more effective than the previous candlelight. The yellowish hue gave a warm ambience to the room, amplified by the warm, restless bodies crammed into the rows of seating. All the upholstery was fine red velvet, the floors were dark stained wood, the walls cream and gold painted granting the room a sophisticated almost regal atmosphere.

Shushing noises erupted from the audience and the burble of voices trailed off as all attention was drawn to the stage.

Music began to play and then, achingly slowly, the curtain began to lift on The Soldier's Return.

Conor grinned, utterly content.

**FIN**


End file.
